


Pushing Daisies and Admiration

by DandyPulse



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bad Jokes, Blood and Gore, Character Development, Charon gets sassy, Drug Use, Eventual Romance, F/M, Foul Language, Ghoul Communities, Ghoul things, Hope you like ghouls, Internal Conflict, POV First Person, Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slavery, Slow Burn, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-25 16:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 74,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DandyPulse/pseuds/DandyPulse
Summary: “For good or ill, I serve you for as long as you hold my contract. You do not own me - my service only applies to your protection. If you hurt me, you invalidate the contract. If you lose the contract, destroy the contract, give me the contract, or otherwise compromise the contract, you invalidate the contract. I am the only one who determines what qualifies as invalidation and only I determine the repercussions,” Charon said robotically. “I am not at odds with killing you if you break your terms.”





	1. Prologue

****Disclaimer:**** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

I held the Jet dispenser to my ear and shook it. Compressed air, chemical, and a metal bead bounced within its metal chamber. There was half a hit left. My lips circled around the base of the inhaler and I pushed the cartridge. I breathed the chemical in until my lungs were so full they stung, then held it inside for as long as I could stand without seeing stars. Immediately the drug took to my system and pumped my heart at a slower, stronger pace. With my head buzzing I widened my eyes and let my five senses absorb every inch of the mammoth room outside of Underworld. I returned the dispenser to my pocket and fumbled for two Mentats outside of the wrapper. I ate those too.

Four months ago I threw two-thousand caps at Azrukhal in exchange for a body guard. Needless-to-say we did not conclude our transaction and I need to work on my people skills.

"Oooowwww. Wakey-wakey, children!" Three Dog's voice quietly rallied on my Pip-Boy as I opened the double doors to walk through the threshold. "It's a bright and beautiful 5:35am sunrise. Things have just peeked over the horizon and I've an odd feeling that the heat is about to turn up. Just yesterday the Lone Wanderer came to me, and you know what she said? She said-"

I turned off the radio. I know what I said.

The main chamber with the twin staircases was quiet except for the sputtering of clunky air conditioners and dehumidifiers. The air, thick with mildew, made my throat feel as thought it’d been painted with a layer of butter. Most of the ghoul citizens were still in bed. I took my time ascending the left staircase and stretched my arms wide with wiggling fingers so that I touched the wall and stair rail on either side of me. My neck and shoulders rolled. A lady needed to be limber for the ugly things in life.

Mostly alert and slightly paranoid I walked into the bar with my head higher than last time.

Three ghouls shared a poker game with their eyes half-lidded by stubbornness and drunken fatigue. They were surrounded by the many tall-tale signs to a busy evening winding down. Hours old drinks and dirty napkins laid abandoned on the tables and bar. The floor, sticky with spilled alcohol, squeaked under the rubber soles of my boots. Several inches of cigarette smoke swirled around the ceiling and left a brown ring around the walls from decades of neglect. A flickering bulb added to the dim edginess that was the Nineth Circle. No matter where I stood in the room there were no obstacles or barricades to take advantage of. Where I stood was as shit a place as any.

Azruhkal stood behind his bar and polished the handle of his only working tap. His pinstripe suit had been white in another life, but now was brown with stained green sleeves. The bar owner beamed when he saw me. “You know what I love about black people? You take their money, spit on them, scruff them up, and they still want to do business with you,” he sung to the bar patrons. Instead of hearing the cheers of agreement he sought for, his voice was like a repellent and sunk the poker players deeper into their game.

I'd never have guessed that smooth skin color was a factor in the post-apocalyptic DC, but old immortal men hang onto their bigotry. I itched for my revolver. Azrukhal leaned back and braced his weight on a refrigerator that was level with his hips. The old machine hummed from the sound of failing door seals as he knocked it off kilter.

"What can I do for you? Here to give me another bag of caps?" he asked sweetly.

I slipped out of my heavy backpack and dropped it on the floor by my feet. My unloaded rifle and black leather jacket were laid on top of it, and then my scarf and goggles. The partially exposed logo for the Tunnel Snakes lifted me with encouragement.

In Butch’s words: “_This ain’t shit_.”

"A strip tease isn't going to get you his contract," Azrukhal said, his voice loaded with slime and bad intentions. His bouncer, Charon, pushed himself away from his post and stepped towards me. He played “fly on the wall” so well it was a mystery as to how he hadn’t carved his own permanent outline around the wallpaper. His jaw tensed and eyes dragged over me - calculating risk and defense.

_Dear death-claw sanctuary he's tall_.

I reached for the hem of my pants and drew my revolver. Just as quickly as I could get it out was as quickly as the bouncer could make three strides and re-adjust my aim. As I pulled the trigger his large palm slapped over my wrist and held it, batting my muzzle away so that the bullet buried deep into the floor instead of his boss.

I slowly drew in a lungs worth of air and braced myself. Forcing my free elbow up, I slammed it down onto his forearm to try and free my gun. His fist found my skull. Fumbling the gun, the shock of the strike was enough to swing my head to the side and force me to reconsider my attack. Butch brought game to fist fights back at the vault, but there was no way I’d be able to compete with brute muscle. In any other instance I would not have been able to absorb the blow, but the Jet wrapped my brain in a fluffy cloud of drug-induced high and moronic courage. Everything moved pleasantly slow.

The bouncer toed my gun backwards so that the weapon skid across the floor and away from me. He waited again to see if I'd attack. How far could I press my luck?

Azrukhal’s patience was wearing thin. "Kill her. Slowly," he sneered.

The three poker players leapt from their game as if their seats had unexpectedly turned into angry, stinging, cazadors. They fled the room to avoid becoming ‘accomplices’ to a friendly, neighborhood murder. Without a spring to resist it the heavy exit door slammed shut into its metal frame, bounced open, then shut again. Charon, distracted by the sudden outburst, left himself open. If I could stagger him I could get the contract. With poorly placed confidence I gripped one of the recently vacated chairs by the back of its wings and threw it at him.

The ghoul bouncers reflexes were remarkable for someone his size. He side stepped the chair, grabbed me above the elbow, and pitched me into a round table. Unable to keep pace I skipped over myself, fell forward, and violently slammed my chin against the table’s metal surface. Pint glasses and Nuka-Cola bottles fell and broke around me as the table teetered and landed on its side. The familiar metallic tinge of my own blood tickled my tongue.

Avoiding splinters of glass and sticky beer on the floor I awkwardly tried to regain my balance. I stumbled forward and landed on my hands while Charon skirted around the fallen table. I kicked backwards at his knee cap, but he caught my thigh, grabbed my shoulder, and heaved. I was weightlessly escorted into the pool table.

The heavy wooden border of the table kissed my ribs and wind spat through my clenched teeth. _For the love of-!_

Blindly I reached for whatever my hands could find and turned to attack him. The cueball connected with Charon's temple and he loosened his grip. He grunted, so I tried again. He was fast. Another grunt, a recoil, and he was back deflecting my attack.

The ghoul scratched his fingers against the back of my skull, knotted my brown curls into his fist, and pulled back. I yelped and dropped the ball. He dragged my body up onto the pool table and slammed my head on its surface. The worn, velvet cover was dry and scratchy against my bare arms. Both of Charons hands were on my throat and squeezing. If this was my slow death, I think I preferred a shotgun to the face.

Adrenaline pumped through my heart and passed so quickly through my body I could have sworn there was a five degree temperature shift for the colder. My face must have paled. I squeezed my nails into his forearms and cut crescent shapes into his leathery skin. His blood, which pooled around my fingertips, did nothing to dissuade him. Charons leg pressed between my knees, and his chest and hips pinned me. He was heavy. In any other context his closeness would have been interpreted as intimate.

Kicking my feet against the broken tiles underneath me did nothing to help. My rubber soles squeaked without purchase.

_Think_!

I’ll die if I don’t _think_! Come on, Mentats. Do your job.

As I released my grip he tightened his and scooted me further up the pool table so that my feet silently dangled on either side of him. I choked, curled my spine into him, and walked my fingers down his ribcage. My other hand hugged around his torso and squeezed him to close the gap between us. He was restraining himself.

I wheezed into his neck. "What're you waiting for?"

The ghoul was so close that I could feel the uncomfortable, natural heat radiate from him and warm my typically cold body. His unique perfume of cigarettes and gun lubricant was unexpected, but not unpleasant.

Charon drew his sparse brows together and wrinkled his vacant nose. He was perplexed by my taunt and opened his mouth to say something.

I stretched farther into him and squeezed my thighs on his hips to secure my progress.

_Please_.

My fingers grazed Charons belt. And then the combat knife.

Fear began to override the Jet and panic ebbed in. I popped the button of his knife holster, grabbed the worn handle of the blade, pulled up and stabbed down. The knife took his thigh so that the violent, jagged edge sawed his flesh open as I dragged it back out.

_Fucking move_.

I let go of him and drew a knee between us, pushing him off and then kicking my heel into the awful gap in his thigh. Charon hissed and pivoted backward. Blood soaked through his pants legs and a big, red blob plummeted to the floor. I wheezed and rolled off the pool table to plant my feet. Impulsively I spread my arms out to keep from collapsing. My head was floating and the stars returned as damaged breaths tried to replace the oxygen I’d lost.

The barkeeper appeared to be having the time of his life. "You look tired," he chimed cheerfully. Azrukhal knew his bouncer would finish me and he leaned over the counter with the sort of poise that didn't care that he was within arms reach. The corners of his broken mouth lifted to flash a perverted smile.

All of this for goddamn principle. Being kidnapped and tortured by Enclave soldiers was more preferable to this bullshit.

Still gripping Charon’s combat knife I used what little advantage I had left to step up to the bar and force the blade down onto the counter top. Blade met bone and the Jet-induced slow-mo world returned to real time. I lifted the knife and sliced it down a second time onto Azruhkal's wrist, severing his hand from the rest of his body. The sharp cracks of the knife connecting with the make-shift wood counter echoed throughout the room. Black-red blood flowed from him and gushed so eagerly it slid down the side of the bar and pooled onto the floor. His blood wet the toes of my boots as he gapped with disbelief.

_Stay in the game._

My brain, ever the observant one, caught up with the rest of my body and joined me in reality. I gasped and shuttered, wheezing sharp inhales through my bruised trachea. My lungs burned and ribs ached. I felt as though I’d driven myself into an invisible wall as every chemical that got me this far stopped existing all at once. I swayed and my vision doubled.

_Stay_.

Azrukhal gripped his bloody bare stump and screamed. His voice shook through me and stung my eardrums like they’d been pierced with hot needles, triggering the early stages of a headache. Dizzy, I leaned forward and held onto a barstool to keep from falling over as I dropped the knife. His saliva sprayed my face as he screeched for Charon, but the bouncer was frozen. Slowly I looked up, then followed Charons gaze. His masters hand was free on the counter with a worn metal ring hugging the smallest finger. I sluggishly seized the hand and pulled it toward me, dragging a trail of blood behind it. I rested my elbow on the counter and unwillingly leaned over the hand. Charons eyes tracked between Azrukhal and me.

"Kill him," I croaked.

The bouncer drew his shotgun and fired.

Still gripping the hand I pushed off the counter and stumbled back to fall into a cold chair. I slumped forward to run my bloody fingers over my forehead. Transferring tacky blood to my face, I sloppily smeared it with the back of my wrist. The stamina and advantage from the drugs was gone and I was exhausted. Licking sweat from lips, I casually slammed the dead limb onto the table top in front of me and held it possessively as my arms began to tingle. Beside the hand was an undisturbed bottle of half-drunk whiskey. I poured two shot glasses.

"Good morning," I rasped.

Charon moved slowly, calculated, and sat in the chair across from me. Red blood dotted the floor from his leg, but he made no effort to close the awful gap.

He took hold of one of the two full shots and brought it to his lips. "Good morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's the teaser? I will be periodically returning to already published segments to improve them, so please don’t be shy. Point out grimmer, spelling, facts, etc. that may be wrong and I’ll fix them best I can.
> 
> Updated! Holy cow. It only took four years from when I originally wrote it, but the prologue has been updated to be packed with more details and excitement for your hungry eyes. Enjoy!


	2. Embark

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

Blonde dry dust settled over plants, rocks, and animal dens. The annual meeting of gray clouds finally dispersed and for the first time in several days a glimmer of sunlight was able to penetrate through to the Capital wasteland. The barren hills were outlined with a bright orange glow and at a quick glance could have been on fire.

Mornings like this were rare. Tenpenny Tower was not untouched by the dust storm and a thick blanket of dirt clung to horizontal and vertical surfaces alike. It reminded me of the snow I read about in vault books.

I brought the cigarette back to my lips and took solace in the bitter tobacco on my taste buds. I pinched the filter, held my breath, and exhaled the narrow white smoke through my nostrils. I jammed the tail-end of the cigarette into the mouth of an old beer can and listened for the sizzle. It was Charon's fault I smoked so much.

I scooted forward in the frayed lawn chair so that my bare knees knocked the balcony rail and my thighs were pinched by the metal edge of the chair. The heat was already becoming unbearable. Hot days and chilly nights.

I flapped the thin fabric of my t-shirt and sat uncomfortably in my favorite pair of underwear.

Many floors below in the courtyard feral ghouls stretched their worn bodies on rocks and picnic tables to warm the radioactive blood in their veins. They were similar to reptiles in that the cold made them stiff and slow.

I reached under my chair for the carbine rifle and sighed at the smooth plastic where my fingers had chiseled their own grooves. "Smile" was carved into the barrel. Happiness is a familiar weapon.

I pressed the gun into my shoulder and laid my cheek to it's side. With both eyes open I peered through the scope and down the short metal barrel. The sun reflected beautifully against the sights and made target practice easy. I breathed deeply and held my lungs.

I teased the trigger.

The recoil of the shot bounced off my shoulder and the bullet whizzed downward. 16 floors below dust leapt a hands-width from a feral ghouls ear and the creature woke to address the threat. Every sun bathing feral frenzied and they circled the concrete fence boundary. Their combined hissing was enough to wake the neighbors if my gun hadn't already.

Some time ago I negotiated homes in Tenpenny Tower for a revolt of ghouls. I didn't know my smooth talking was a death sentence for every smooth skin resident. A slippery one, that Roy.

Proud of my rooster calling I stood and stretched my arms above my head while both hands gripped my gun in a mock jumping jack. I twisted my torso to both sides and dipped down. A warm breeze graced over my sweaty backside and drew goose bumps from my skin. I straightened my back and braced my rifle over my shoulder. I lazily held the gun and twisted the brassy doorknob to my room.

"Shut up!" a deep ghoul voice shouted to the ferals from an adjacent window. I smirked and walked inside.

It'd been several years since I came into possession of Charon's contract and no matter how sweetly I fluttered my eyelashes he still would not divulge his past. "I live to serve," he'd say. He wasn't back yet from last night's hookup and I had our home to myself.

I abandoned my gun on the middle tier of a wooden shelf with the rest of my equipment and glanced around the room. The space was a depressing example of a vacation getaway.

Faux ivory pillars from Caesars palace were randomly placed as if they were an impractical prank. The ghastly green patterned wallpaper peeled and was as unwelcoming now as it was to its interior decorator when it was first laid out.

Godfrey, my robot butler, buzzed and whirled through the room with a rag and cleaning solution. The smell of Washo detergent, and my personal touch, were the only things worth praise.

I glanced at the skeletal remains of the bedframe in the corner and the heap of junk that was dumped on it. My dissected power armor, tools, hardware, metal pieces, jars of bolts, tubs of oil, a broken eye bot, and a remarkable collection of springs all balanced precariously on the wooden slats of the bedframe.

I don't remember when my large roommate and I drunkenly agreed that mattresses are for pussys and tossed it, and related bedding, over the balcony, but he says it was the best night of his life. I made a hammock from a fitted sheet and Charon called dibs on the not-so-white-anymore couch.

Dog-meat stretched his legs at the center of the room and yawned. His long pink and black tongue rolled over his chipped yellow teeth and graying chin.

"We're you on Charon's bed again?" I asked him in a sing-song voice.

"Who's a naughty boy? Huh?"

The mature mutt wagged his tail so hard his butt waved and rouge hairs escaped from his backside. I pat the space between his pointed ears and walked to the dresser.

A black pair of leggings, intended to be worn with metal combat armor, hung flirtatiously from the top drawer. I snatched them and pulled them on like pantyhose, stressing the elastic over my round backside.

Several years of the wanderer lifestyle had burned my vault weight down to muscle, small breasts, and wide bony hips. I didn't like the new me, but I didn't dislike her either. New Shea had stamina, scars, and a mean sucker punch.

I pulled my sweaty t-shirt off over my head, tossed it over my shoulder, and scratched my bare ribs. Completely bare from my leggings up I searched for something suitable in the open drawer.

I pushed aside a ribbon of automatic ammo and grabbed a faded gray tank top.

There was a knock at the main door. Dog-meat perked his ears and scrapped his nails against the floor as he walked to the entry way. He lowered his nose to the gap between the door and tile, and sniffed. Particles of dust scattered as he sneezed, and deciding it safe, shifted himself clear of the door. The mutt was old and unable to tag along for adventures, but never stopped protecting me.

I looped both arms through the shirt and pulled my head through. Thick sun-lightened brown curls flattened and bounced back up.

"I'm decent," I called as I smoothed the fabric and tucked it into the waistband of my leggings.

The door opened wide and Charon ducked his head to step into the suite. He closed the door behind him and by habit turned the deadbolt lock. He gave me a quick glance before dropping his eyes.

"I thought you said you were decent?" He asked. He placed his right foot on the arm of a wooden chair and hunched forward to untie his boot laces.

I crossed my arms over my chest to hide my modesty - with the variety of breasts he fondled I was perturbed that he was bothered by mine.

"We've been over this," I said. "I'm not binding my breasts, wearing a sports bra, or underwire. We just need to find a surplus of Vault-Tec undergarments. Besides. No one can tell when my jacket is on."

He grunted disagreement. Charon removed his boots and dropped them beside mine at the door. Dried mud cracked from his boots and scattered on the floor like black ants fleeing a flooded mound.

"Do I have time for routine and a wet cloth?" He asked as he rubbed the back of his neck to avoid my gaze. He knew the best way to hike was by bordering sunrise and sunset, so why he was asking was beyond me. __Maybe to clean his crotch__.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. I didn't want another sunburn.

"Wet cloth, yes. An hour of pushups? No."

"Your ankle?"

The ghouls voice was flat and to the point, but his eyes hosted a degree of concern. He lifted his left eyebrow, the scar that cut down the middle of it separated what thick hair remained and stood out as a pale old wound above his faded blue iris.

Charon had every right to be skeptical. I'd like to say I heroically twisted my ankle while throwing my last grenade to an unstoppable behemoth super mutant, thus saving a group of small children... but no. I twisted it on the damn stairs while counting nuka cola caps. Four days and I was stir crazy.

"Bandaged with restricted rotation. It'll be fine," I said. "Another day in here and I'll do more than snipe feral watch dogs."

Charon turned his head to hide his scowl. It was likely that he thought we'd sit still for another week and already had plans. He should be used to my impulse shenanigans.

"I'll be ten minutes," he said.

In a tower of ghoulettes it was easy for him to host a fling for weeks at a time, but lately it was nothing short of ridiculous. I suppose several decades under Azrukhals figurative chastity belt would do that to a man.

__He's a slut. __There's no beat-around-the-bush about it. He stomps over the bushes, steals a handful of berries, ignores the thorns, and keeps on finding more bushes. I'd never admit it out loud, but his constant plans made me feel left behind and alone.

I collected our gear and put several days worth of water and food in our packs. The trek to find a bobble head wouldn't be more than a day, but there were plenty of things trying to kill me... hunger wouldn't be one of them.

The high-pitched whistle of steam rushing out of the metal kettle distracted me only long enough to remind myself to not look up. Cock jokes came to my vulgar mind, but I suppressed them.

Charon poured the boiling water into a medium sized plastic bowl and diluted the heat with cold tap water. He grabbed a fresh clean cloth from a wicker basket and pulled his shirt off over his head. Old dog tags lifted, jingled, and collapsed back to his chest. __Don't look. Don't look. For all of DCs dusty pastures don't look.__

_ _Shit._ _

His shoulders and rib cage seemed wider without cloth to hide them, but hips so narrow and muscular with that perfect V that makes female brains go dumb. It must be my two year dry spell talking, because he looked good.

We took the elevator down to the first floor. I bounced on the balls of my feet at pace with the jazzy elevator music until I heard the ding. The double doors squealed and jerked on their gears before settling open. We entered the lobby.

The large room was a disaster. Plastic sheets were draped over furniture and fixtures, and the majority of the original tile had been broken up and swept into a pile in front of the u-shaped greeting desk.

The nice thing about living in nuclear aftermath is that very few people redesign their living space, and even fewer people know where to start. No one thought to horde powder concrete or sheetrock panels, and hardware stores were fully stocked with whatever other materials we felt we needed. Twenty or more boxes of thick pink marble tile were stacked against the far wall.

Ghoul carpenters and handyman occupied the room and busied themselves with various tasks. The room buzzed with teamwork and every day conversation. Old ghouls were perfectionists to their pre-war trade and worked slowly, but produced awe-inspiring results. I looked forward to an even floor, bright walls, and working lights.

In the corner a ghoul in a blue jumpsuit stood on the second tier of a small ladder and held two electric wires in his hands. He leaned his shoulder against a stone pillar, juggled the wires and a pair of electrician's pliers, and licked his fingertips. He expertly clipped and unsheathed the protective wire casings to expose clean, unfrayed copper threads.

"Winthrop?" I called.

The ghoul looked up, and sure enough, it was the technician from Underworld.

"Shae! Hold still. This won't take long." He grinned from his perch.

Golden sunlight filtered through the windows and reflected highlights of cyan in his typical blue hair. At the bottom of both his earlobes were small pointed metal studs that reflected his skin color so well, I wouldn't have noticed them without the light.

"Visiting?" I asked.

I stopped at the foot of his ladder and looked up at him. It felt good to connect with someone who had as much interest in dismantling things as I did. The last few weeks Charon practiced limited conversation habits and I had yet to form a strong bond with someone else in the tower. I was desperate for mutual interest and nerdy chitchat.

The bodyguard didn't bother stopping with me and walked by us towards the double doors. I watched the back of his head and frowned.

"Um, yes? Sort of? I'm seeing how I like the area before I commit," Winthrop said. "Plus this place hasn't had any care since Tenpenny bought it. There's a lot for me to do."

"That's good to hear. To be honest, I thought the renovation would be a shit show. I can't wait to see the greeting desk gone and for this place to feel more like a community instead of a high-brow exclusive douche museum."

Winthrop snorted through his collapsing nose.

"Douche museum? What's that make Underworld?" he asked.

"Trash museum?"

"I worked hard on that trash," said the mechanic as he playfully rolled his eyes. "Hey. Do you mind grabbing the electric tape by the toolbox?"

My eyes searched the base of the stone pillar and found a rusty red box with its tools and miscellaneous contents dangerously spread out on the floor like a modern day flea market booby-trap.

I grabbed the black tape and passed it up to him as he handed me a small pair of rubber-handled pliers. I laid the tool among the heap on the floor.

"You should probably go to him," Winthrop said without looking up from his task. He pinched and twisted several wires together, and freed a strip of black tape with his teeth.

"Hmm?"

I looked towards the glass doors. Charon may as well have been shooting laser beams from his eyes.

"It's fine. We'll chat later," Winthrop said before giving a small wink.

"Drinks when I come back. Don't leave the tower," I waved my hand at him as if fanning a flame. Maybe he'd know a substitute for the rotted propeller belt of my power armor.

"Don't worry. I won't," he laughed.

I took in a deep breath, said my goodbye, and closed the gap between me and Charon. I didn't even give him the satisfaction of a side glance. __Prick.__

He opened the door for me and we entered the barricaded stretch between the tower doors and gate where we joined the lead security person, Roy Phillips, and two other men.

Feral ghouls stood on either side of what we misleadingly nicknamed "the foyer". The twenty-five feet of secured walkway was the only safe divider for smoothskins in and out of the tower so long as they did nothing to enrage Roy and his guards. Four pins held four corners of every barricade wall panel and joined them to posts. If those pins were to be pulled up, the panels would collapse, and the barrier would be gone.

"Duration of leave?" Roy asked as he held a pen above faded lined paper on a clipboard. Roy was a short ghoul, only just taller than me, with pinched shoulders and a slim ribcage. He cleaned up since I last saw him and wore an off-white cotton shirt with oyster shell buttons that neatly tucked under a bulletproof police vest. His fiancé, Bessi, must have influenced his wardrobe.

I looked towards the sun, then the horizon, and rechecked my pipboy map. What breeze was left of the sandstorm was cool in contrast to the heat that was already blasting its charm down our backsides. The wind pushed through the gate at the end of the corridor and brought with it small specks of dirt to graze my clothes, skin, and hair. On the other side of the six foot tall metal panels were irritated grunts and hums of feral ghouls who could smell and hear me, but did not have a visual.

"Not long," I said as I readjusted the thin white and black checkered scarf around my neck so that my skin was better protected. "We'll be back around dusk."

Roy nodded and wrote something down.

"If it's not too much trouble, see if you can find a box of cigars for the crew. Lift morale," he said.

"I'll see what we find," I nodded.

Roy waved his hand dismissively and top two security guards, Randall and Mich, escorted us to the gate. Or as I referred to them "Limpy" and "Sour-face".

"Don't kill no more ferals," said Sour face. "Could be someone's cousin."

He lurched his head back, hacked his throat, and spit a powerful snot fueled bullet into the dry dirt. __Classy__.

"What's it feel like to make every woman you encounter taste her own bile when you talk?" I asked him. We stopped behind a harshly drawn line to give the gate enough clearance to open.

Sour-face squinted his eyes at my cheeky grin as Limpy spun the rusted valve to open the gate.

The metal obstruction shuttered and protested as it swayed halfway open, its old wheels clicking against rocks and dirt. I followed Charon through the narrow opening and gripped the sling of my rifle a bit more tightly. The gate closed behind us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who previously read the story with its first two chapters, thanks for being forgiving and overlooking my obligation to perfection. I want to avoid word-dumping and that's exactly what those two chapters felt like. Plus, I wasn't too happy with Shae. Meet Shae 2.0. And don t worry about Charon - he's staying on the path I originally intended with plenty of sarcasm and snide remarks to come.


	3. Clash

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

We zigzagged through the metro tunnels with little resistance and found even more ease topside on the broken roads between tall industrial buildings. Rusted vehicles stained the pavement orange underneath them as they were parked in a confused conga line headed south. Some still had abandoned luggage strapped to their roofs and in their back seats.

The parking lot in front of us was completely vacant, save for the raiders who made back-and-forth passes along a collapsing cement structure.

If I were to make an educated guess, I'd have supposed the staff in the Bethesda building had a heads-up about queuing for Vault-tec.

Charon and I squat behind a turquoise city bus that had its tires shot out and left little gap between its underside and the pavement.

I briefly leaned my back against its metal siding, and hissed and recoiled as the heat saturated through my leather jacket and stung my shoulder blades and spine. We wouldn't be comfortable outside too much longer.

I directed the business end of my rifle towards the clouds, shoved a fresh magazine into its belly, and disengaged the safety.

"I don't like him," my guardian mumbled, barely audible, as he stuffed red plastic shells into his tactical shotgun and steadied the butt of the gun against his hip. His fingers were tight around the heat shield and his knuckles white from the intensity of his grip. Charon balanced himself on the balls of his feet to compensate against the weight of the half-full backpack he carried.

"What? Raiders? I don't like them either," I said. "Did you grab the frags? I figured we'd rush them and use the main entry as a choke-point."

"Fucker," he said, more for himself than for me. The ghoul bit his bottom lip with his canines.

Clearly he wasn't talking about the raiders. __I'll wiggle it out of him later__.

He plucked a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket and beat the box against his knee to pack the tobacco. With one hand Charon flipped open the pack lid and seized a cigarette with his lips. He held the open box for me, but I declined.

"That's the spirit. I like!" I said as I handed him our only reliable lighter and shifted so my knee bumped his.

"Let's find some shade," he replied through pinched lips and glowing cigarette. He stood, shook out his knees to crack the stiff joints, and walked around the backside of the bus to entertain its bumper.

I hoisted myself up and set my rifle along the hood of the bus. I minded my fingerless gloves and avoided the blistering heat by throwing a bent tin can under the guns stock and pivoting.

My first round clipped a raiders shoulder while they were all still unaware. Before I could readjust my aim and seal the deal, a man in a reflective skirt and a cast iron pan on his chest fired his laser pistol. I tilted my head and heard a sizzle. The awful smell of burnt hair warned me to be faster. __Smarter__.

I dropped to my stomach, pulling my rifle with me, and shot out his ankles from the opening between the bus and pavement. As the raider collapsed I shot his skill. Brain matter and flecks of bone sprayed and displayed behind him on the cracked cement.

I rolled and got to my feet. __Keep moving.__

I was able to fire one other well-placed shot and disabled an otherwise healthy watch dog. Charon tore behind the raiders with buckshot and blade.

The malnourished mutt cried out and I felt my heartstrings tug. She shouldn't be here.

My companion was quick when he sunk the combat knife into the dogs wind pipe. As Charon pulled the blade from her throat bright red blood sprayed outward in rivets like what's typically described in an advanced internal medicine magazine. He must have hit an artery.

While still holding his knife Charon used both hands to operate his shotgun. He pulled on the grip under the barrel, locked his posture to aim, and fired at the first raider who was busy tugging a stimpack from his pocket. Metal beads tore through the man's knee. The ghoul pumped his shotgun a second time and shot the raider in the chest.

Charon accomplished all of this before his cigarette burned to the filter.

When the last body fell we held ourselves still and listened.

My eyes darted to Charon, to the open windows, then to the main entry doors. It was completely silent besides the grains of sand that were carried by the wind as they pelted against concrete, metal, and glass. The storm was picking back up.

This was too easy. I looked back to the tall ghoul and twitched my eyebrows. __What now?__

He pointed to me, exhaled cigarette smoke, and pointed to a shady granite pillar.

I may have held his contract, but he was authority on the playing field. I wasn't sure where I'd be without his knowledge and mentoring. Weaponry, tactics, hand to hand, natural medicine, knots… everything I knew about survival I had him to thank.

I pulled my gun close to me, kept my head low, and darted across the gap between the bus and the building. The gravel under my rubber soles rolled freely like marbles and I whirled my left arm to steal back my balance. I stepped and skated behind the pillar like a clumsy duck out of water and slapped my hand against cool vertical stone to stop the uncontrolled momentum. I took a deep satisfied breath and blew out of pursed lips. __Hoooo. That could have been bad.__

I looked over my shoulder. Charon relocated himself and was waiting for me at the entrance. I stalked along the gray wall under the open broken windows. A cool breeze bled over the jagged glass and tickled my exposed ears and cheeks. I couldn't wait to get inside.

I joined him by squatting at the opposite side of the closed metal door.

"Graceful," Charon said slyly as he flicked the smoked remains of his cigarette. "Ready?"

I nodded. I smiled broadly as my heart revved with the conflict of fear and excitement. I reached out and knocked on the door, mindful to keep my hand at knee height in case the raiders were the "shoot first" type.

There was a strained silence for several moments as no one answered. The large ghoul to my left held a frag grenade tightly with the pin already pulled, his muscles tense with anticipation. The door cracked open.

With casual precision Charon tossed the live frag grenade. I watched the smooth black cylinder sail and as it passed the slim opening in the doorway I stole the doorknob and forced the door back shut.

Slam!

BOOM!

My ears were deafened by the familiar high-pitched ring, but my eyes were just fine.

Charon wasted no time. He sprang to his feet, opened the door, and repeatedly fired his shotgun until the magazine was empty. We switched spots and I knelt on one knee with the butt of my gun pressed hard to me to limit recoil.

Like all of our previous outings I picked off raiders his shotgun couldn't reach - disoriented people on stairwells, balconies, down the halls, and loitering in inconvenient places until no one was left. I stood and backed myself against Charon with my shoulder touching his bicep. I slipped my fingers into my pants pocket to fidget with the smooth cast of brass knuckles and calm my nerves.

We held ourselves still for several minutes and waited for the ringing to dull, and for more raiders to get impatient and expose themselves.

Charon moved first. He circled wide around me and avoided additional eye or skin contact. It was almost becoming a game for me - a sort of power play on how often I could touch him before he would become uncomfortable and move.

The first time we played we were reading on separate ends of the couch and I would get up, busy myself around our suite, and return to the couch just slightly closer. Not so big of a difference that he'd scare off, but closer. __It was like hunting wild Brahmin.__ I briefly entertained the idea of him in a field and grinding dead grass in his mouth.

The ghoul walked cautiously to the door and slowly reopened it. He waved me to follow, but there was a strange whirring sound that was gradually getting louder as the flash grenades effects eased. Just before he stepped into Bethesda's west offices I grabbed his elbow. For what felt like the 100th time this week he shot me a death glare.

"Get over it, " I frowned. "Watch for the turret. "

His stern expression eased and he nodded, but said nothing. He was about to turn back to the room to resolve the turret, but I tightened my grip on him just enough to make his head turn back to me.

"When this is over - we're talking about your attitude," I said.

Charon's hand covered his mouth as he peered down his absent nose to me. He pointed a finger, parted his lips, and made his hand into a fist. He gripped his shotgun tighter. I watched his internal skirmish and held my chin up in deliberate defiance.

He slammed the door closed for a second time.

"What. Fucking. Attitude? "

_ _Now? He wanted to do this now?_ _

"This. This is exactly what I'm talking about." I waved my free hand in a circle around him and referred to his stiff body posture and skewed face. "You act as though I stole your favorite Grognark comic, blended it into a mixed drink, chugged it, and then shit it out under your bed while you made nicey nice with another wet hole.”

Charon stepped towards me and leaned in. He wanted to be intimidating, and it was working.

"God damn. Get off your high horse and order me not to sleep around if you don't like it," he said through clenched clean teeth.

My eyes widened, but I said nothing.

"My contract shouldn't include my cock."

If I were a rational person I'd laugh and pat his back. I'd offer him a vacation and extra pay. I'd remind him that I was simply holding his contract until he found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. But I didn't feel rational and I didn't feel like explaining myself. Again I said nothing.

"You're intolerable. Do you want to make profit off me? Is that it?" He asked with a voice on the verge of a growl. He rarely spoke to me and suddenly he's as chatty as a molerat pup? __For what? To be mean?__

I felt myself boil over. I rolled my fingers in and felt my nails bite into my palm. Everything tensed. In one smooth motion my hands met his chest as I shoved him with all the weight I could muster.

The ghoul stepped his right foot back just to keep his balance, but was completely unfazed. The assault didn't even make him flinch.

He removed my pack from his shoulders and carelessly dropped it onto the hot cement. Charon slowly put his gun down, laced his thick fingers together and stretched them backwards so that his knuckles cracked.

He shoved me back, and then impulsively followed it with a solid punch across my cheek.

Charon once told me that physical violence voided our contract and he'd kill me, but this was our third scuffle and he never hinted any desire to smash my skull. He always gave back to me better then what I gave him, but that was the end of it.

My head internally screamed. I wondered if anything was broken. Certainly bruised.

I staggered and bent forward, and slapped my hand to my mouth to stifle back a yowl. Tears welled in my eyes and I took a deep breath.

I wanted to apologize, but for what? __This was his fault__. Since when was Charon my bully instead of my companion?

"Why're you an asshole?" I asked with a slight crack to my voice. I studied the gravel we stood on. I was never very diplomatic, but we had something good once. What happened?

"You keep secrets. You're ugly. You disgust me," Charon said sneering.

I pressed both of my hands to my bent knees and watched drops of blood dribble from my nose to the ground. Each splatter was another second I said nothing. __Be a big girl__.

"You're a hypocrite. You're no better than me - inside or out," I said.

I stood straight and met his gaze. I waited for him to falter.

"Good," he said.

"Good."

The silence had a swollen pregnancy of unresolved tension and suspicion. I didn't feel any better. Both storms were thicker now - the sand menacingly pelted us and our sense of partnership was worse than when we started. I swallowed tangy blood and saliva.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, wiping my nose with the sleeve of my jacket. Red smeared over faded black leather.

Charon crossed one arm over his chest and pinched the bridge between his eyes.

"I want to know where you go and what you do. At all times. My contract penalizes me every time you leave."

__Oh. We're back to this__. The source of all our fights. When I leave him behind in exchange for a companion who has choice. They choose to risk their lives for me. Not just that, but I've purposefully kept him in the dark about where I go and what good, or bad, I accomplish.

I often struggled to balance sincerity with secrecy. My eyes found everything interesting but his own. It was no different than traveling with Fawkes or Clover, except for the part where they actually knew I was 101 and didn't hold me accountable.

"It's... I can't do that. You wouldn't like me."

__How exactly would Charon take it? __Four years and he'd finally have a face to the name he constantly heard on the edge of people's lips. Or maybe it'd take another four years for him to put it together. Wouldn't that be nice.

"I don't like you now," he said with a smirk.

__Liar__.

_ _The bobblehead and Winthrop could wait._ _

"Want to help me free some slaves... or something?" I asked.

"It's my job," he said, ego finally deflating.

"But do you want to?"

"Yes?"

" 'Yes?' As a 'maybe'? Or 'yes' as a firm 'you want to'?"

The ghoul tilted his head to the side as if to ask me if I was stupid.

"Yes. I want to do something useful instead of this mundane collectors errand."

The throbbing pain in my sinus and rusty bloody aftertaste reminded me just how dangerous Charon could be. Like a hungry hound straining against his leash.

The ghoul sighed. My hearing cleared and I heard him nervously swallow.

"Come here," he whispered.

I stepped forward so that the pointed toes of my boots touched the round steel-toes of his. I could feel his frustration. I was an idiot for playing this game, but why not?

Charon cradled my face in both of his hands and tilted my head up so he could inspect his damage. His palms were fiercely warm. I wanted to hold his wrists. To kiss his palms.__ No. Don__'__t think like that.__

"It's not broken," he said as he mindlessly wiped blood from my upper lip, "maybe a minimal fracture. We'll know in a few days after the swelling goes down."

He took his hands back as if I'd burned him. I felt my self-esteem crack.

I bent to the side, pressed two fingers to a nostril, and forcefully blew. Clotted blood splattered like chunky spray paint and some got on our boots. I did it to the other nostril and enjoyed the added pain that clearing my airways had caused. One pain to replace another to remind me I'm still alive.

I nervously chewed my dry lips and Charon rubbed Brahmin fat on his.

"Carry your own pack. I'm not your mule," he said.

I flinched, looped a pack strap through my wrist and flung it over my shoulder. He was being stubborn.

"You may not be my mule," I said, "But you sure as hell act like one."

We spent the better half of the day avoiding the metro, but when the storm became too severe it pushed us underground. I held my scarf clumsily over my mouth and clung to Charon's wrist as he led us down a set of stairs. We ducked into the small cove before the chain link gate and waited. Thick green legs stalked near the top of the stairs, but made no indication of coming down them for a scuffle.

The only nice thing about sandstorms was super mutants, among other beasts, were just as blind and deaf as we were.

The ghoul tugged against the thick chain that looped the gate closed and gripped a padlock. We didn't have bolt cutters. He pulled each gate opposite the other so that I could slip under the strained chain, but Charon had to forcibly wiggle himself through. If only we had butter.

I dusted the dirt from my pipboy screen and rerouted the map for Lincolns monument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, and/or reviewed. The chapter is a little premature and may get a few more edits, but Gingertreat asked so sweetly.
> 
> I also intend to keep Charon with a pump-style combat shotgun and Shae with a carbine rifle (semi-automatic) - small handicaps make for interesting opportunities.


	4. Ambush

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

We perched at the top of a broken escalator, just above the rusted train tracks and derailed subway cars, and studied the clumsy inhabitants as they weaved between deserted benches and trash. Charon held his combat knife with poise, ready to add another thick layer of blood on top of what had already dried to the weapons iron teeth earlier this morning. We agreed to be careful and take our time since we weren't sure what would be waiting for us at the memorial.

The metro station sang to us in groans and ticks as the storm pushed against our original entrance and made getting back out near impossible for the time being. We had no choice but to stay the night underground.

I pressed my cheek to the smooth butt of my rifle and peered through the scope. It was dark, but sure enough there was another corpse dragging its stupid feet far enough down the tunnel for us to avoid its stupid eyes.

_ _Mr. Ornery Meatshield can take the lead._ _

I waited for quiet to blanket the station and then made a hand motion for Charon to go ahead and descend the deactivated stairs. Each metallic step cried under his weight and the echoes repeatedly bounced back from the the vast underground tunnels and cathedral ceilings.

I tried to time my footfalls with his, but it may as well have been a thousand bombs detonating at once. I was an idiot all-you-could-eat buffet - second isle, to the left.

Charon stopped at the foot of the stairs and tensed. He turned his head to listen and cupped his hand to where his ear had once been. With several stairs separating us I leaned towards him and peered over his shoulder. There __may __be a green glow along the edges of a door frame? A computer? Jerry-rigged light? The tunnels chorused with the scuffling of feet.

Hisssssss.

BOOM.

A glowing-one erupted and heavy air smacked us like we'd caught the wave of a careless grenade. My teeth felt as if I'd been chewing tinfoil and my whole mouth tasted metallic. I breathed quickly through clenched teeth and scrambled to revive my perception. I instinctively dry-swallowed an orange mentat and the pocket lint that stuck to it.

A talon-company mercenary was thrown through the doorway and into the main hall in front of us, smacking into the side of an already heavily dented subway car and falling limp to the empty train tracks. The body of the old car was weak and its metal wheels moaned against the tracks they desperately tried to keep hold of.

Charon grinned and his eyes widened. He didn't hesitate.

"Run," he said as he sheathed his knife at his thigh and cocked his shotgun.

A handful of feral ghouls entered the dark hallway to collect their tenderized and heavily irradiated dinner. They were led by a topless female who's stomach sank close to her spine and fingertips were raw from clawing previous dinners.

She stopped, straightened her back, turned her head, and immediately knew where we were; as if years of being feral led to the development of the much sought-after "sixth sense".

I held my breath and gripped the stair rail. Her hollow eyes looked through Charon and she hungrily screeched. The other ferals broke to a sprint, but some had dislocated shoulders and useless arms stifled their balance. They shuffled side to side with each long stride, as if they were keeping pace to old banjo music while they ran.

Then they were joined by a pair of their greater glowing cousins.

__Holy fuck__.

One of the glowing-ones stopped to charge and the luminescent glow in its limbs pulled inward to collect at its chest. Arms, legs, and head mostly disappeared in the darkness and all I could see was a floating green orb that was its torso. It reached its arms upward, almost in prayer, and quietly whistled as it inhaled through black teeth. I lifted my semi-automatic rifle.

"Shae," Charon whispered. He fired a round of blasts at old kneecaps and guarded the base of the stairs.

"What?" I seethed. I carefully raised my rifle and aimed.

"Shae! Run now!"

He was right. I'd be immobilized and disemboweled if I guarded his back so closely. I spun my heel, gripped the short barrel and butt of my rifle, and bolted up the stairs. The harsh gun repeatedly cuffed my chin as I leapt two steps at a time, and the hanging shoulder strap teased my knees as if by some unholy bad luck the frayed canvas would scoop my leg and throw me off the escalator.

They swarmed him.

"Find a room," Charon shouted as he abandoned his shotgun and returned to his knife. Buckshot ripped through preserved skin and compressed bones, but a very strong fight can be forced with overwhelming numbers. The ferals were hyped with an unbreakable resolve by the recent radiation burst.

Seconds felt like hours as I steadied my breath at the top of the stairs to get a reliable shot. The bullet cracked the air and pulverized a feral ghoul's abdomen. I was aiming for its chest, but dead is dead.

The last brass shell sailed from my gun and my mind screamed every expletive about Amata's dirty father I could think of. I roughly pulled out the empty magazine, shoved it into my rear pocket, and reached behind myself to try and blindly locate a pre-loaded unit in one of the backpack side pouches. Elbows bend backwards, right?

Two ferals with their legs still intact bypassed Charon and climbed over the escalator rail behind him. He twisted himself and grabbed the ankle of one, cutting the tendon above its heel to disable it.

__Nope nope nope__.

I didn't have time to reload. I reached into my leather jacket pocket, slipped cold fingers into colder brass knuckles, and discarded the plan about shooting altogether. I guided my arm through the rifles shoulder strap and wore the weapon like an awkward name-brand purse.

With the gun secured I ran back the way we'd originally cleared. Each footfall felt blind and clumsy as I dodged old luggage, sand-rot skeletons, and collapsed cement and rebar.

A mummified hand grabbed the upper loop of my backpack near my wayward scarf and ponytail. Bony fingers were as sharp and narrow as kitchen knives. The ghoul jeered with satisfaction. My foot skid against the dirty floor and I awkwardly used the momentum to swing my arm around and land a hard hit to the ghoul's skull. It crunched. Adrenaline led my attack and I kept punching.

"Let. The. Fuck. Go!" I grit through each assault.

I thrashed and pivoted as the ghoul weakened, but held on. Charon was overpowered and there were many feral feet on the staircase.

_ _Shit._ _

I pressed forward with the weak ghoul still holding me and I took the first open doorway that wasn't a bathroom. I slipped into the room, clutched the door handle, turned, and slammed the weight of the heavy metal door to sever the ghouls arm. The door bounced back and I slammed again. The door closed and I turned the ancient lock. It wouldn't hold.

__You__'__ve got to be kidding me!__

Angry bodies piled behind the door and fists beat and clawed at their barrier. Charons battle cries were muffled by the fray. I slipped out of my backpack and tossed it to the floor so that I could attack with little restriction.

Another radiation blast and my pipboy screeched and crackled. The room was nearly black. I let go of the breath I'd been holding and flexed my fingers over those smooth, reliable brass knuckles. My hand stung.

Quiet came abruptly.

The door knob turned and I lifted my fist. The door opened and I attacked.

Charon caught my forearm. "Relax," he said.

The bodyguard slipped in and closed the door behind him with the sole of his boot. I pulled my arm back and closed my eyes to appreciate the absolute silence and the leftover warmth where he held my forearm. I smiled briefly to seize full enjoyment from the harmony and the pounding heartbeat in my ear drums.

He pressed his back against the door and slid down to a sitting position, his legs stretched and boots touched the wall opposite to us. Charon grunted and held his hip. Radiation oozed from his body and the rusty toxic aftertaste of radiation intensified on my tongue. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, curved around his square jaw, down his neck, and disappeared under his shoulder guard.

"Are you okay?" I asked as I opened my eyes and sidled beside him.

"No," he said very plainly, "I'm high, horny, my body is burning, and I'm bleeding faster than the radiation can heal."

_ _Points for honesty._ _

I turned on the pipboy light just in time to see him roll his eyes at me. The small pastel-green tiled room reflected the soft glow of blue light and I was able to identify metal shelves, a bucket, broom, and miscellaneous tools. We were going to make camp in a cramped maintenance closet. Joy.

I swat the ghouls hand away from his wound.

"Do you know what happened?" I asked as I gripped his armored vest by the shoulder and pushed the plates up. With my other hand I tenderly pinched the bloody wet fabric by his waist and lifted it for a peek at angry flesh. The gash was closing harshly and jagged skin knit itself back together.

"It was a fucking puppy dog," Charon snickered through half-lidded eyes, "Kid. What do you think?"

"… you're going to be fine," I said dryly.

__Wait. Hello__.

I came back to my earlier revelation at the tower suite. How were his hips and stomach so muscular and perfect despite so much damage? And that muscle above his hip? It juts and dips, and... where on this barren bleak earth did it come from?! Since when did bodyguard equal beefcake? Butch was a flabby comparison.

The corner of Charon's lip lifted to a smirk as he studied me. He pulled our lighter from his pocket, mouthed a partially crushed cigarette, and lit it. He was a chimney.

"You a virgin?" he inhaled and puffed outward. The smoke of his cigarette fell on the pipboy light and dispersed as it traveled to the ceiling. The lit end of the cigarette broadcast an orange glow over his lips. I nearly yelped and let go of his armor.

His voice was like chocolate-covered-gravel.

"Or do you normally travel alone?" he added. __Rough and smooth.__

I wanted to taste the nicotine on his mouth. I wanted him to shut the hell up.

"You're high and full of shit," I murmured.

Charon chuckled and took a long drag from his cigarette. The red blaze burned brightly with the force of his lungs and then dulled as he pinched the filter. The ghoul passed the cigarette to me and for the first time I drew from something he smoked first. Perhaps this is what he needed to find camaraderie between us again. Me being a lech and showing him I wasn't scared of his rotting zombie germs.

"How'd I do?" he asked.

I smiled when I felt the wetness of his mouth on the cigarette filter.

"I think I'll keep you," I said jokingly as I sat next to him and stretched my legs like he stretched his, "for now."

Outdoor shortcuts were rarely easy. Without breaking pace Charon vaulted over a metal guard rail meant to deter cars. I stopped and, oop, one leg at a time, nice and easy, hop from one foot to the other over the barrier, just a wee shuffle, swing the other leg and don't catch your boot, do a little jig, shimmy, pivet, and receive a high-score of 9.3 from the judges. I waved, blew kisses, and thanked my audience of trash and debris. The ghoul was unimpressed.

We came to Lincoln's Memorial as the sun was setting. The day had been cool from the storm and our pace had been greatly delayed. Grains of sand pelted the side of my face with unrestrained ferocity and I reluctantly admitted it wasn't a good idea to have gone exploring. Or was it exploiting? Regardless, I should be in my warm suite, sipping beers, and tossing dingy socks into old tires.

Charon strongly argued to arrive by nightfall so that the howling sand would cover our foot tracks. On my own I would have taken ridiculous rendezvous to keep out of the weather, but the goliath preferred staying topside and took the first metro exit he knew about. This was "the best option" in his most humble and respectful of opinions. __Bullshit. __

We jogged across a walkway and came to the side of the monument. Were we facing east? Or were the stairs on the south side? I brought up my pipboy and tried to make out where the entry was, but dirt kept interfering with the touch screen and I couldn't pull up the local map.

Charon was impatient and hoisted himself in one smooth attempt onto the five foot tall platform. He turned, got to his knees, and extended his hand to me.

There were many reasons to host different companions for different adventures, but there was one reason why I held Charon at a distance. Traveling together was becoming a different kind of danger.

The ghoul helped hoist me onto uneven flooring and the primary space of the memorial. My thigh uncomfortably scrapped against jagged rubble and I clawed my free hand into a stone crack on the floor like a novice mountain climber. The backpack was wonky and I lost practice balancing its weight. I dragged myself forward and the ghoul helped me onto my feet, small pebbles stuck to my palms and fingers.

I tried to rotate my ankle to make sure the medical tape held and was glad that side-to-side movement was still limited. I bet my boot smelled like a Brotherhood's jock strap.

The tall stone pillars that bordered the monument were stained reddish brown from the humid dirt and stuck like discarded natures chewing gum. The blue glass panels that composed the ceiling were held by a tic-tac-toe metal frame and were mostly shattered by past wayward bullet activity. Stray bits of glass hid under dirt and sand, and cried out as we stepped onto it.

It was strange to see the memorial so vacant.

Headless Abraham Lincoln jeered at us from his tall throne. Charon held his shotgun low and walked slowly - obviously on edge after the previous nights unexpected encounter. Plus, these slavers in particular didn't trust me. We'd done some business a few months ago that led to my double-crossing them and doubling my profit. Since then, despite a reliable working relationship, they didn't know what to think of me.

I heard the whip of wire before I saw Lincoln's head drop from a rebar cradle that’d been suspended by the ceilings glass and metal frame. The large stone skull vibrated the floor tiles as it crashed, whipping Charon ten feet up to hang upside down by his ankle. Rusty barbed wire cut into his boot with little forgiveness and held him there. His shotgun was thrown by the force of the whiplash and landed at Lincolns feet. I held my breath for a misfire that mercifully didn't happen.

"Should of known they'd booby-trap the place," I shouted upwards to the large ghoul.

Charon unsheathed his knife, folded himself in half, gripped his ankle, and sawed at the old wire. He looked like one of those circus acrobats I'd see in faded magazine advertisements.

"On second thought," he grunted, "I'd rather be hunting bobbleheads."

_ _Of course you would._ _

The ring of high-pitched gunfire made me quickly inhale and draw my revolver from my hip. My heart dropped with my knee as I knelt, both hands on the guns stock, and eyes squinting into the sand.

Another gunfire and a bullet clipped the pavement beside my right foot.

"Leroy!" I yelled over the storm.

The pillars and large stone president offered little cover from the weather, and no protection from edgy slavers. The sun sat low and nestled between two black clouds, its vertical rays stretched their hungry fingers like a prisoner reaching between cell bars.

"Shae!" Charon shouted in time for me to turn my head and see the aluminum bat.

The suspended ghoul threw his combat knife downward, clipping the hand of the man who intended to strike me. I scrambled to my feet and whipped around just as the attacker re-assigned his target and swung his bat into Charon. It connected with his spine. The blunt attack echoed a sickening crack and the ghoul hissed as he instinctively stretched downward, waving his arms below his head to try and steal the hollow weapon. Like a burly piñata.

The slaver swung the bat over his shoulder, flexed his fingers, and readied himself for a home run.

I fired my revolver.

My hands shook as the battered blood-splattered bat fell to the floor, followed by the body that previously held it. The bullet had sailed through the man's throat.

"Leroy. I want to talk to Leroy!" I shouted again, hoping more of his men would hold off long enough for their boss to arrive. They hated when uninvited guests got too close to Abraham, and Charon and I were paying for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who read the story before I revamped the last two chapters will notice there's a bit of recycled writing (I really liked a scene and didn't want it to get lost in the scrap pile). As always, thanks for your patience, reviews, follows, and favorites.


	5. Exchange

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.  
  


* * *

I pulled back the revolvers hammer and rotated the cylinder - another bullet ready to be discharged. I was so heavily watched by unknown sets of eyes I could practically poke them out two at a time.

I wanted to holster the small gun and grab the violent weapon hanging from my back. I dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. Pulling forward my rifle would make me feel safer, but feeling safe and being safe were two very different things. A bigger gun would jeopardize any opportunity we had thus far of walking away.

"Where's Leory?" I shouted again, "Tell him it's-"I stopped my tongue and sucked in my cheek so that my molars bit into the delicate thick tissue. The side of my tongue could feel the deep pockets and skin flaps from past occasions where I stopped myself from running my mouth. One of my deepest dents is when I nearly mouthed off to the Vault 101 Overseer when I was 16.

I looked up at Charon.

The large ghoul folded his core again and worked with feverish fingers to untie and loosen his tangled boot laces, one hand firmly gripped his captive thigh to maintain balance and hold him in place.

"I told you that you weren't allowed around here. We had a deal," a man growled as he ascended the stairs. His silhouette outlined by the setting sun temporarily blinded me and made it hard to identify him.

But I knew that voice, and I observed the slight limp to his gait.

Silas' black hair had grown since the last time I saw him and was slicked to the side by grease and dirt. He pushed a pair of aviator sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, and then with the same hand he blew a shrill whistle that could be heard over the dying wind.

If it weren't for bad company I'd romance about a warm cooking fire and the approaching cold, open, starry night sky.

The slaver who was second in command stopped far enough away from me that proved his uneasiness. Silas wore a chain-linked vest that so tightly strapped to his shoulders and around his stomach he looked like a classic holiday ham. __Fat flesh bursting beyond the strings.__

The others came out of their hiding spots.

We were surrounded by seven slavers, plus the mostly dead guy. So, eight. Technically.

I wavered, if only briefly, to reassure the confidence in my step and collect my manner. The "wasteland hardass" I tried to portray was as much myself as the insecure bully vault girl.

Silas unemotionally looked down at the man I shot as he struggled between awful shaky breaths. Excess air forced itself through the open hole below his adams apple and sprayed specks of blood on his face and clothes. Every exhale reminded me of the pathetic leavings of an empty spray paint can.

"Release him," Silas said. He flicked his hand in Charons direction and made an example to show that he was mostly in charge. As if letting Charon touch ground while one of his men choked to death would make him merciful.

I'd judge him if I myself didn't exercise similar self-serving traits. Every decision begins with "What do I get?" and "How do I get more?".

My teeth made a sawing motion of my inner cheek as I gingerly hugged my finger around the revolvers trigger.

"I'm here for information," I said through faux-confident up-cast eyes, "and you're not in the position to make deals. Where's Leroy? How's your thigh, by the way?"

_ _Play it cool. Be arrogant._ _

Silas seethed as I prompted him.

Why did he walk like a flaccid dick?

I bet my bullet was still stuck in his femur. He couldn't run if a Brood Mother Deathclaw was behind him with a fresh red manicure.

"Leroy isn't here," he said.

"That's a shame. We both know how slippery the trigger gets when I'm impatient."

The slavers looked between each other, every one hugging their own weapon to protect themselves from my reputation. Slavers and raiders had a good knack for sensing distress in their bosses and either slaughtered them because they were weak and needed to be replaced, or kept their heads low because being ignored was their best camouflage.

As if invoking his name repeatedly could summon him, a man in metal armor ascended the stairs and joined us on the memorial floor. He practically claimed each foot track made by Silas with his own heavy footfalls. He was a dominant old dog pissing on his territory.

"We're savvy business people," Leroy said coolly, "Surely we can come to some sort of agreement?"

The big-boss man firmly placed his hand on Silas' shoulder and gave a cheesy wink.

"Why is he not down yet?" I asked as I pointed my spare thumb to the ghoul.

A man and woman dashed to my request. They looked their trap up-and-down, and worked together to untether the awful line that held Charon. His size made them look feeble and incapable. They fumbled and swore between each other, wondering outloud whether it was best to cut the barbed line from Lincoln's head, or unroll it and hope for the best. They weren't sure who would be better to upset, their boss... or me.

A third man jumped to grasp Charon by the elbow and jerk him upside down. The ghoul relaxed his core and scrunched his face with minor annoyance. The slaver used a thick plastic zip tie to bind Charon’s wrists together and secure them to his rear belt loop.

Not only was Charon umcomfortable, but the likelihood of him choking someone between his ribs and bicep had been greatly reduced. I'd bet 20 caps that he could still manage it and would pay 40 caps to see it happen.

I smiled at the idea of someone passing out while smothering in the ghouls arm pit and busy-man body odor. Weighing Charons options, he likely let the binding happen.

I couldn't afford him more than a side glance. It would be too easy to let sympathy slip in an otherwise sociopath economic environment.

"Is this really necessary?" Charon asked as he drummed his fingertips together behind him. His typically tanned scarred face was turning pink from the blood rush and his typically thin, but kept, hair fluttered upside down. Gravity was likely damaging his ankle more than the initial trauma of the snare trap. 220 pounds of muscle and bone suspended from one point and he never grimaced.

"You killed one of our men. I think it's a fair safety precaution," Silas said.

"Who is this?" Leroy asked as he scratched at several days of beard growth with jagged, dirty finger nails. He nodded his head to Charon.

"Don't worry about him," I said. I relaxed my shoulders and flirtatiously lifted a single eyebrow. I bit my lower lip. "Where are you harvesting slaves next?"

Leroy frowned. "I don't trust him."

"You don't need to. You wanted to talk business. Let's talk business. He's being let down. I'm happy. So, where?" I purred as I brushed my hand down his forearm.

Negotiating had a better turn-out when men were led to believe I wanted their junk more than their conversation... but I pretended I was wiping a booger on him. __That makes us even.__

I felt urgency.

Every moment that I didn't wrap up the reason we were at the Memorial was another moment that the slavers could lose their drugged-out minds and decide to kill us.

Just for the sake of killing.

__Because we're inconvenient__.

Leroy remained silent.

The wind storm that had thrashed the Capital wasteland had finally concluded and it made for an errie sort of quiet. Earth stayed on the ground and grouped in zigzags, not unlike the trails of prehistoric snakes that skipped across hot desert fields.

My ears were accustomed to the storms howls and bitter pebble kisses on my neck, and in an odd way I almost preferred its sound-obscuring cries to the absolute quiet.

"The guy was going to kill me," I said.

It was clear Leroy wasn't ready to talk about the open market until the other issue had been resolved. I could bite, but big fish didn't get big by being stupid. __A nibble, then.__

"He didn't know who you were."

"That's a lie, and you know it," I snorted and waved my revolver at the group. "There isn't a day you all don't listen to GNR." __And Three Dog is a gossip__.

There was an unexpected thud and another sharp whipping sound as barbed wire freed itself from Lincolns head and reeled up. It whizzed over its support beam and dropped to the ground in coils around Charon, who was the source of the thud.

The two slavers who worked to free him feared repercussions and winced. They starred at me with wide eyes as I afforded them a glare.

The suddeness and harsh handling of his release startled me, but my expressed cement wall held and my façade kept. I'd have jumped out of my pants if they weren't belted tightly around my bony hips.

Glass cracked as the ghoul grunted and braced himself against his elbow. He began to sit himself up, but then thought better of it and rested on his side with his bound hands still stuck behind him. His knees were tucked together and body rigid from the impact. The ghoul eased his head to the ground, but his whole body was stiff with the need to act.

Charon may not be a mind reader, but he easily read my cards and folded his hands to better our win for the sweet agave pot. It was like we were sewn together at the hip. Four hands, four legs, and one brain.

The ghoul was allowing me to have combat decisions, and making it harder for me to explain (fabricate) why he was a useless companion. This both delighted and infuriated me.

__That's right. Play dead__.

Silas sighed and stood over Charon as if he were guarding a pay load.

"Yeah, I've heard," Leroy said as his gaze never left mine. "Freeing nobodies now? Listen. You let us keep Lincoln's memorial - let us keep doing our thing - and we'll let you keep your slave."

Did he genuinely feel his offer was appealing?__ Or was he threatening me__?

"I'm not a slave," Charon hissed. Even in a position of vulnerability he had balls.

I knew people in this particular occupation were harsh to slaves to break their moral, so I can't say I was surprised when Silas harshly stomped Charon in his temple with the heel of his boot. The large ghoul winced as his head bounced off the concrete.

"Shut up, you," Silas warned him.

I lifted my revolver and aimed it at Silas, paused, grit my teeth, and holstered it. If I held the gun a moment longer I'd kill him for sure, and that's not good for trade.

"W-what the fuck?!" Silas shouted. His voice quivered with alarm by my brazen display.

"You're not negotiating and you're wasting my time. There's one in the barrel. Who do you think it's for?" I seethed as I fisted a portion of my own hair and painfully pulled to stop myself from another out burst.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

Leroy grumbled and trudged over to his right hand. He gripped the fabric of Silas' shirt and jerked him close to talk privately. The two of them never looked away from me as they whispered.

The smaller man nodded, rolled Lincoln's head into a duffle bag, adjusted its weight to his hip, and walked down the stairs.

"Paradise stopped talking to us since your last stint. It's unfortunate your philosophy changed," Leroy said after Silas was out of sight.

"Nothing changed. There’s just more money in freeing, then there is in escorting. I'll be back on your side when the economy changes," I said. __Two truths and a lie.__

"They're looking for you." Leroy stepped close to me and placed two hands on either of my shoulders, similar to the way my father had before he said something preechy or parenty.

"I'll make sure I'm easy to find," I replied, returning the favor by placing both of my hands on his elbows. We looked like we were about to sumo wrestle.

Leroy and I shared an awkward laugh.

"Okay. You do what you gotta do," he said. The man squeezed his hand on my shoulder and then offered up a hearty hand shake.

I took his hand with gusto and squeezed with as much firmness as I received.

"I look forward to it," I said. I pat him on his back as a symbol of good faith, and slight mockery, as he waved off the remaining un-named rabble of slavers.

They stayed with their feet glued to the Memorial floor, but scrambled and tucked away when their brains caught up.

Leroy nodded impassively and walked away.

I sighed heavily and turned my attention to Charon.

How long did it take me to diffuse this bomb? How long before I was able to help? __Could I have helped Megaton?__

I eased my back pack off my shoulders and carried it by a single strap. Its odd weight waved like a pendulum as I walked and I dropped it beside him. I needed a blade to cut his bindings and cautiously reached into the loose dirt and sand. My fingers touched glass before they enclosed around the hilt of the sticky, dirty, bloody combat knife. What little of the blade that was exposed reflected the rising moonlight and winked with a projected fondness.

I looked back to Charon and opened my mouth to say something snarky about the position he was in. __Bondage humor.__

"Oh. And 101?" Leroy called over his shoulder, "This changes everything."

Charons eyes rapidly went from warm impatience to confused interrogation. His vulnerability and mis-placed trust in the hands of a serial killer must have tasted bitter - worse than acid reflux that follows eating the tough bladder of an elderly molerat.

I do good things too. I think. __But he may not see it that way__.

I knelt behind him and sawed at the zip tie with the serrated end of his knife. He pulled his wrists opposite each other to avoid injury and give the blade space to pivot if need be.

The plastic was stubborn, but old, and little curly crumbles fell away until the binding snapped. Charon sat up, but never looked my way. He rubbed his wrists with his palms, flexed the muscles, then returned to the boot laces he undid an hour before.

With consideration he pulled on each loose loop and checked the eyelets to tighten the strings, ending the top of the bunch with a crisp double knot. He swung his ankle, and finding it was good too, stood.

"Charon-" I began to ask.

"Don't." He walked to Lincoln's legs and grabbed his beloved shot gun from the dirt heap it landed in. He looked down the sights, blew dirt off the trigger and all associated mechanisms, opened the barrel to inspect the live rounds, and snapped it shut. Satisfied, he finally reached to his chest and pulled from him a thick sliver of ceiling glass. It must have pierced him when he fell.

The ghoul grunted and dropped the shard. Dark red blood painted the blue transparent dagger, and Charon wiped his bloody hand on his pants like it was nothing. Fresh blood leaked from the hole in his armor where the glass glanced his shoulder and pierced the major pectoral muscle.

"Let's go," he said as he starred out to the super mutant trenches, monument, and mall. His feet were spread evenly apart, shoulders held back, and his shotgun held firmly by its stock.

Charon needed to kill something.

I took in a long breath and grabbed my revolver to reload it. I slid the revolver chamber open with shaky hands and turned the gun upside down. Six empty brass casings chimed as they hit the ground. I couldn't have shot Silas afterall.

"I'd like Dr. Barrows to look at you," I said, rising from my knees and situating my back pack behind me. "You're bleeding and could be concussed."

"If Underworld is where we need to be," he said with indifference.

"It isn't. But your adrenaline is overriding your pain."

"Where?"

I frowned and walked up to him. I was about to have a heart-to-heart, but I looked out to the mall instead. I was embarrassed of my identity. __Or was it shame?__

"I just said. Underworld is-"

"No. Where are we going?" Charon was impatient. He was likely avoiding the 101 issue until he could safely rip into my ass without attracting unwanted wayward bullets.

I sighed. I was more scared now then I was while negotiating. I could have lost Charons life.__ Now I've just lost his loyalty.__

"Rivet city," I said.

"Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today just wasn't Charon's day. What's the harm count? Trap. Bat. Fall. Boot. Glass.
> 
> Did I get them all? I promise to make it up to him, and all of you, in the next chapter. He's a walking one-man army. He'll be fine. I think.


	6. Surgery

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

We jogged between broken walls and overturned cars, pausing occasionally to reroute and go-around every asshole who may want to take a chunk out of us. It was times like this that reminded me why I hated the city. I often day-dreamed about growing old, finding a bunker, locking the door, and only coming out when my libido kicked in. Shae, the honorable protector and eighty-year old nudist, who appears once a fort-night to buy canned goods and dry-gag the Capitol Wasteland.

I looked over my shoulder to check on Charon. He kept pace behind me with the business end of his shotgun pointed low, but we had a complication. His blood hadn't clot yet and filled his right boot so fully that every footstep stained the ground black behind him. We were like that german fairy tale with the kids and the bread crumbs.

I nodded my head and waved him ahead. As he slowly ran by I watched as the air about him shifted on high-alert to take the leadership role. Or was it to trick me? Critically I took in every movement. His gait was steady, breaths long and controlled, and eyes wide awake.

"Let's stop for water," I finally said.

Charon didn't reply, but found the stoop of an apartment building and sat on the third uneven step. I sat one step above him and offered the first drink from my canteen as I unscrewed the lid. The warm cement under me penetrated through my thin leggings and helped soothe my sore thighs from all the running around we'd been doing. My ankle too began to ache, but the question of taking-it-easy vs getting-out-alive wasn’t about to be brought to the table.

The ghoul gripped the canteen and eyed me suspiciously. Another block over Super Mutants practiced their big boy words.

I watched the ghoul swing his head back and force down several large, uncomfortable gulps. Purified water dribbled down his chin. He wiped his face with his forearm and screwed the lid back on. His hand shook. Charon looked over his shoulder to get a good view of me and pursed his lips. He coughed with disgust.

"You were out of bullets?" He growled.

I grunted agreement.

"Fuckin' shit talk,” the ghoul mumbled.

He didn't need to say it. The second part of his sentence would have been something like, "Dumbass smooth skin is going to get me killed." I wanted to call him out based on a theoretical thing he didn’t really say. The connection between us wore down faster then a block of suet soup in a community shower.

"How's that wound of yours?" I finally ask.

Charon narrowed his eyes at me. "What of it?"

"You haven't clot much. You tasting rust yet? Or is that adrenaline still doing it's job?"

"I'm fine." he said, shoving the canteen at me more roughly then I'd anticipated. I almost fell backward as I gripped the tin. Water sloshed inside of it like a brewing storm.

Nearby we heard dragging flesh and slapping palms on concrete. Urgency gripped both of our chins and jerked our ears in the same direction. Charons grip tightened on his shotgun and I fumbled to get my carbine. A centaur would skip its way around the corner any second, and magically shit behind itself a personal army of super mutants. Honestly. What angelic knight-in-shining-armor has time for this crap all day every day? _Is this night ever going to end?_

I leaned toward him and, with my lips pressed close to where his ear used to be, hesitantly attacked what I knew would get action. His contract. "You're useless if you pass out," I said.

Charon sucked wind between his teeth and his adam apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Rivet city is too far," he finally admitted.

My tense shoulders went slack. Why had he been playing his health for my benefit?

"Let's turn-in."

Together we made our way up the second set of stairs to the old apartment complex, agreeing that the higher we were from the ground floor the safer our odds of not being noticed, hacked to small bits, and turned into fashionable hats for the semi-annual super mutant craft fair.

The ghoul held firmly to the stair rail and stopped climbing, his head dipping low and eyes becoming glossy. The hallway was dark and made it hard to see our own hands in front of our faces. His breathing reduced to a ragged rasp.

"Don’t." I seethed as I bolted to his side. I wrapped Charon’s left arm over my shoulder and gripped the thick material of his belt to stable his hips and weight. "Stay with me, big guy."

We lumbered slowly together until we reached even ground. I struck the door jam open and used my rear to push against the heavy metal door. It fought against the action of opening and took more of my stamina than I care to admit. Charon stumbled forward and blindly reached for the door frame. Something as simple as balance was now outside of his control. The large ghoul collapsed in the doorway. Dust retaliated out from under him and suspended in the air like a thick smog around us. The place hadn't been disturbed in decades. I swallowed hard and let the door slam against my backpack to stop it from slamming against him.

Step one. Grab his weapon. Step two. Grab his wrists. Step three. Drag.

Charon looked up at me with the last remaining bit of conscience he had. The man carried himself with such fluidity, but with his muscles mostly lax he was heavier than a brahmin birthing twins. Cold sweat glossed his forehead. It'd be only a moment before his eyes rolled back completely. _You’ve lost too much blood, you big idiot._

The hallway was as dark as the stairwell, paired with Charons situation, meant for the first time in months I couldn’t be picky about which door to which apartment had the best tactical location and reliable plumbing. I turned to the first door on the right and gently eased the ghoul down to the floor. The brass knob and lock were firmly set, but not impossible. It took three busted bobbypins under the pipboys unreliable glow before the gears sweetly clicked for me and the apartment invited us within. The oak door opened without so much as a squeak.

What was left of an aged perfume drifted through the apartment and filtered into the hallway. Lilacs? Or was it aged driftwood? It was hard to tell what a synthetic smell was supposed to be when nobody living had the slightest remembrance of the real thing.

Charon sat uncomfortably in the narrow kitchen. His back propped against old kitchen cabinet doors and what must have been a welcome relief of cool porcelain from a deep, low-hung farmhouse sink holding the back of his skull. Inside the sink a medium sized mixing bowl slowly filled with sulfur smelling water from the tired tap.

"Stay here." I heard myself say. _Stay here? __Where else would he go? Vacation in Hawaii__? __I__’m so smart. I say smart things._

I quickly swept the apartment for living, mechanical, or chemical threats that may have woken upon our intrusion. The space was as clean as to be expected.

The early-evening moonlight was stifled by dust on the windows, enveloping the entire living space with the luminance of decades long abandonment. The natural curtain, while inconvenient, was not unexpected. Old, framed photos hung at odd angles and told the story of a retired couple with an obese cat.

I returned to the kitchen and gave Charon a glance. He was semi-alert and judging me for how long I was taking. Hopefully he was thinking of all the things to address once we were home, starting with ripping me a new one for that “lone wanderer identity crises”.

I approached the small mint-green refrigerator, shaped like an upright casket, and tested the two swinging doors. Somehow the old plastic lining held the appliance firmly shut. I gave him another glance, and then pulled the whole thing forward to test its weight. The fridge was like a military safe on a pirated ship - as good as the next heavy thing to be a last-minute, desperate door barricade. I rocked it forward on its corners, unplugged the taught electric cable, and rocked it the rest of the way to the main entry door. The busted lock wouldn't stop intruders, and neither would the fridge, but at least we'd have a millisecond head start if anything did try to break in.

“Good,” I mumbled to myself and forced a smile, “Hey, big guy.”

The ghoul lulled his neck upward to watch me return, his eyes lazy and breath strained, as if to say “Now, what?”

“You’ve a collapsed lung,” I told him matter-o-factly as I removed my gloves and Tunnel Snakes jacket. The heavy top fell to the floor in a heap of ammo-filled pockets and buckles. Cool air graced my exposed flesh and sprung a trail of goose pimples up my arms. His resigned quiet told me everything - the ghoul had known since blood began tickling his tonsils.

Somehow he’d found his shotgun while I surveyed the apartment. His knuckles were white from pressure and blood loss as he gripped the well-oiled wood stock in his lap. The trigger soothed him like a childs stuffed toy. I carefully reached down and relieved him of his weapon, setting it an arms length away from me if the evening called for it. Charon’s eyes protested between sleepy blinks.

"You don't need it right now. Take a break,” I whispered.

I gingerly stepped over him and turned off the sink faucet. The old pipes groaned, but the ball-joint behind the handle kept the water back. I scrubbed my hands and elbows with iodine and rinsed them in the bowl.

Charon coughed near my hip.

“Can you help me?” I asked as I dried my hands on a moth-eaten kitchen towel and kneeled beside him.  
  
“With?” He asked. His voice was more hoarse than I was accustomed to.

I took a deep breath. “We can cut the armor off you with a steak knife, but you’d rather have something semi-durable to wear when we bust out here guns blazing. You can’t keep it on.”

The large ghoul smacked his lips and nodded. He grunted and leaned his body forward, and together we eased the layers off of him.

Once the bodice-tight armor was removed his wound poured blood like a flood behind a tired dam. The blood ran down his torso, soaked through his pants, and pooled on the floor. I hooked my fingers under the hem of his soft, faded black tshirt and got it over his head and through his arms.

The cut from Lincoln’s ceiling glass was narrow and deep, and with an unfortunate strike directly between his third and fourth rib. I compressed his black shirt and pressed it to the wound. “Hold,” I said, forcing his own elbow against the shirt so he could apply the pressure himself. We needed a third set of hands.

I fumbled through my backpack for much-needed supplies. Buffout for pain and epinephrine, surgical tubing for blood, stimpack to heal, and needle and gauze to clean whatever was leftover.

“Okay, big guy. This is going to hurt,” I sighed. Charon’s eyes were closed and chin pressed to his collar bone, the shirt he was instructed to hold laid beside him heavy with blood. “OH, fuck!” I scrambled to him and stumbled over his long legs. I pushed my hand to his throat a little more harshly than intended. There was still a pulse.

“Okayokayokayokay. Fuck. Okay.” I grabbed the buffout, popped the child-proof lid, and dumped the bottles contents onto the gray-blue granite counter. There was no time to look for a motar-and-pestel, and an iron paperweight did the job as well as one could expect. Quickly I smashed four pills and hurriedly brushed the dust into my left palm. The kitchen was brighter than before as the moon cleared over the towering buildings outside. I briefly wondered if getting closer to the only light source was more important than running water. _Too late to change the game plan now._

I crouched beside Charon and ran my fingers through his thinning red hair to tilt his head upward. If he were awake he’d make some sarcastic comment about the tender, borderline inappropriate gesture. I frowned and felt the white cue ball of the 9th Circle’s pool table lodge itself in my throat. The first time his blood was on my hands didn’t even register on my conscience, but now I was fighting to stay focused as he fought to stay alive.

I dipped my fingers into the powder buffout and rubbed it against his gums. His thin lips and mouth were so dry that his saliva mixed with the buffout and stuck to him like a chalky toothpaste. The drug would absorb directly into his bloodstream and save us time, which in the grand scheme of things was a better option than waiting to be broken down by stomach acid. Conscience bodyguard or not, gums had always been the only option.

The seconds ticked as I waited for it to take effect.

The large ghoul shot upright form his slouch and inhaled sharply as the numbing, adrenaline agent took hold of his brain and slapped him across the face with a super sledge. The heels of his boots skid across the brown tile as his knees involuntarily twitched, and he propped one foot against the corner of the cabinet to keep himself steady.

His pale blue eyes were wide and pupils narrow. “Smoothskin?” he hissed.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

We were asking a lot from an otherwise gloomy outcome. This world didn’t give second chances. The last stimpack we carried was expired, and the typically clear bead of liquid within the syringe was an amber yellow. But it wasn’t brown, which meant it would still partially close the wound on an otherwise semi-drug resistant ghoul. I would have to aim the needle deep to make sure the solution closes the lung and surrounding tissue. Any flesh beyond that would be collateral. I dodged saying anything cheesy like “Welcome back” or “I thought I lost you.”Because, honestly, who says that?

_Straight to business._

“Your pain is going to be lessened, but if we wait too much longer you’ll pass out again from asphyxiation. We can’t stimpack you because you’ll drown in your own blood.” I wrung the surgical tubing between my hands, tested its strength, and straightened it back out. I found the iodine mixing bowl for his blood to empty into. Unexpectedly, my fathers words came to me. _Alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. I will give onto him…_

I placed the bowl in the junction between Charon’s thighs and pressed it against his crotch to save it from the same conclusion as the previous job I’d assigned him. “Hold this,” I said and placed his large hand on the bowls rim. His grip held the dish still.

One end of the clear, rubber tubing went into the bowl.

The ghoul tilted his head to the side as his lungs rattled with each quick, blood laden breath that filled him. His bare chest bounced at an inhumane rate to accommodate the drug overdose that was over-driving his system. It was reassuring that his body had stopped shaking as the full effect of the buffout found every vein, organ, and platelet to temporarily numb and alter.

“Ready yourself.” I warned and forcefully pushed the free end of the surgical tube deep between his violated ribs, caught it on some cartilage, and found the opening that was his lung.

“Fucking - hell.” Charon grunted as his free hand grabbed my thigh and his nails cut harshly against the thin cotton. His entire body stiffened as his nerves screamed at him to pull out the cable, kick me in the face, and burrow under the floor boards to hibernate.

I watched as partially-clotted, red blood siphoned down the tube and into the bowl as the painful rattling lessened with every inhale. The ghouls hold on me relaxed and with a deep, unburdened breath he leaned forward, nuzzled his forehead into the junction between my neck and shoulder, and passed out.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m real sorry about this. Really, I am. I know we need to deal with the whole “why is he mad about 101” issue, but dying seemed like more of a pressing issue. We could make it small talk, yes? Charon could say, “Oh hay, eat a pair of super mutant balls, you poo-eating bloat fly maggot,” and Shae could reply, “I banged your mom, you cheese-cloth-rotting fungal butt face.” But then he’d be dead, and where’s the fun in unrealistic expectations? No, no. We’re headed in the right direction. Two years since the last update, and I hope this is worth it. This is a different kind of author neglect. Character death because of short-sightendedness is totally different than story-death from not updating. I think. Hmm…


	7. Explanation

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

_The first night Charon had spent in Tenpenny Tower had been a true test of my patience. He stood rigid and uncomfortable with his back against the door and a theoretical stop-sign and rod shoved up his ass, and no amount of prompting or dismissing could get him to budge. I even exploded and told him he was pissing me off, and to go do something normal. But the brainwashed ghoul couldn’t quite grasp what it was I needed from him. Everything was followed by a “maim” and “if that’s what you wish”._

_It was three in the morning when I couldn’t take it anymore. I had sweetly tucked myself into bed, wrapped my arms around Dogmeat, and woke to the unsettling feeling of having a pair of faded-blue eyes locked right on me… counting every breath. The only light source in the apartment was the soft, welcoming light on the face of the Nukacola machine._

_“Chaaaron.” I whined into my pillow, “What are you doing?”_

_“Maim. You have not yet given me a command.” he said it so plainly, I had to re-play his voice in my head to make sure I heard him correctly. As if this was something I should have known before. I gripped his contract in my palm and felt the rough twine that strung the ring safely around my neck._

_“Go to sleep,” I grumbled._

_“Where?”_

_“On the couch. The floor. My bed. Anywhere. Just stop hovering.”_

_Charon tucked his arms behind his back and cracked his spine, but made no impression that he was about to leave his post. “Is that a command?”_

_“Oh, for fucks sake.” I sat up in bed, threw the tattered blanket from my bare legs, and stalked over to the large ghoul. The startled canine leapt from the bed to follow me._

_“Here’s your command. And you’re only getting one. So, listen carefully.” I said with a hand on my hip. I had to crane my neck back to fully appreciate how he was a whole head taller than me. “Be human.”_

_The large ghoul’s chin jerked back as if he was about to spit. Charon studied me in the dim light. “I’m not sure what you mean by…”_

_“No.” I interjected. “You do know what I mean. Eat when you want to eat. Sleep when you want to sleep. You take care of you. Because if you don’t, you’re going to die in this very corner because I’m not going to tell you anything different.”_

_I could tell another “if that’s what you wish” was at the front of his forethought, but Charon buried it deep. He took a moment, but the sternness in his posture relaxed and he allowed himself to yawn. “What are my sleep choices again?”_

With aid from the light on my pipboy I observed the asymmetrical stitches on Charon’s ribs. The stimpack I’d pierced deeply into the gash had done more than we could have ever expected and the ghouls flesh knit a jagged, rough scab that blended with his patchwork skin and leathery muscle. I pierced his flesh with a steel sewing needle one last time and followed the stitch with a secure surgical knot. Using the small blade of a utility knife I cut the fishing line. There was so much blood. Without much thought I stood upright and removed the warm scarf from around my neck, wet it under the sink, and gingerly dabbed at the dry blood on his torso and side. In the morning we’d have to discuss the benefits of going home versus pushing for Rivet City.

With gauze and bandage the hard work was completed and it was time to think about the heavy work - moving Charon someplace warmer. There must be a collapsed wall in an adjoining apartment, because a frosty draft was busy snaking itself around my legs and caressing my back end like an old lover. The bitter cold of the sink’s water froze the joints in my hands as I washed them, rinsed my pipboy and scarf, and Charon’s shirt. I wrung the flimsy clothing and spread them onto the counter so that the two items could be moderately dry by morning, and carefully removed the pipboy so that it could dry too.

I worked quickly to free the only blanket from our backpack, spread it on the floor, and rolled Charon onto it. From there I dragged him from the soiled kitchen into the apartments dim living space. The old, shag carpet was crunchy under my feet and gave the blanket resistance as we transitioned from one room to the next. How old was his body? A century or better, sure, but his actual body seemed to have ghoulified by his late thirties/early fourties. Should I leave him on the floor? Or heft him onto the couch?

_The floor would be murder on his back._

Lifting him onto the crushed, velvet couch was a two step process that comically involved steadying his upper body on a cushion with my knee while lifting his thighs up and dragging the rest of his bulking weight the rest of the way. “After this,” I huffed, “you’re going on a diet. No more muscle-building.”

I grunted and rolled him as far into the couch cushions as I could and adjusted his dangling arm so that it rested across his chest under the warmth of the blanket. His head supported by the bloated arm of the couch and the lazy grip of a buffout overdose.

_Nicotine. I need nicotine._

I gripped my naked wrist and tried to remember where we stored the lighter. Charon used it last? I raked my eyes over his sleeping form as I built the courage to quickly rob his pants pocket of the lighter and a partially crushed cigarette. But… for some reason, I leaned in and kissed his sleeping form instead. His lips were thin, but warm, and his breath was heavy with moisture. I breathed him in and stayed slouched over him with my hand in his pocket.

Shocking myself I quickly stepped back, stole the lighter and cigarette, and turned on my heel. I sat down in front of him with my spine against the couch, let the back of my head fall until it rested on his thigh, and repeatedly dragged my thumb in the dark against the lighter until it finally sparked a flame strong enough to hold against the draft. With closed eyes I lit the cigarette and took a long draw from it.

I held the nicotine in my lungs until they felt as though they’d explode and I had to let the smoke go. As the gray cloud wafted away from me I felt it take the last of my resolve with it. My vision became blurry and hot. I tried to blink the emotion away, but the fat tears over-flowed and tickled my cheeks as they slid down. Why did things have to be so hard? I shivered and zipped up my leather jacket. The unfeeling barricade that I so carefully constructed was chipping away one brick at a time. I had a problem, and that problem was “keeping it professional.”

There was no telling when Charon would finally wake or how much pep would be in his step, which meant he would not be pulling watch duty anytime soon. I sniffled, pulled my carbine into my lap, and waited for sunlight.

Heavy boots.

I sat up from the floor and reached for a rifle that wasn’t there. Orange rays of sunlight pierced the room like projectiles, lighting up the entirety of the apartment and what I now saw to be cathedral tall ceilings. Whoever the couple was that lived here before had serious money.

Charon was missing from the couch. He must have been what woke me. My head split with fatigue, and between grinding my jaw all night and being sucker punch ed… my sinus was in no condition to smell roses if there were any. If I felt like this, how badly off was he? I glanced down and noticed three small holes in the thigh of my leggings along with the minor discoloration of an oncoming bruise. It was where Charon’s nails had dug into me the previous night.

_Shame for wearing skimpy attire. Shame for stealing a kiss._

I was immediately assaulted with the aroma of coffee and a melancholy song playing from the kitchen. I felt my bare wrist and starred at the kitchen island where my pipboy had been left to dry out like grandma’s fine china. The soft green glow of the screen mellowed and intensified with the bravado of the song.

A small, tin mug of freshly blended coffee sat on the small table in front of me. I took it and drank with a sort of recklessness that borderline burned my tongue and cheeks.

I wanted my pipboy.

The radio's signal strengthened as the song came to an end. "Oooooow! This is Three Dog," the radio DJ howled, "And have I got a treat for you. Miss 101 has herself a bodyguard. Tall, dark, and handy with a gun. And it just so happens he heals by radiation. That's right children, 101's right hand is a ghoul. But don't let her hiring backup discourage you. Twice the 101 means twice the bad guy carnage. We’ll tell you more - after this.”

The radio station delicately chanted a song about pies.

“GNR was playing the morning you took my contract,” Charon said from the kitchen as he inspected his still-damp tshirt with the unmended hole. The ghoul shrugged it on over his head, through his arms, and tucked it into his pants. He then braced both forearms on the counter, winced, and watched me through the other room. The island was the only obstacle between us.

The large ghoul busied himself with adjusting the flames of our military-grade travel burner and placing a small pot of water on top of it to boil. “I remember, because it was a repeat episode. Azruhkal’s whiskey supply came through Megaton and his entire stock had to be watered down to keep with demand. Do you know what 101 said to Three-Dog when he asked why she rigged the bomb?”

It took a moment for my sleep-fogged brain to catch up. Slowly I closed my eyes and frowned. “I remember.”

“You said you did it… because you could. Why didn’t you tell me you were 101?”

The mug between my palms wasn’t hot enough to warm me from the figurative chill in my veins. When I first met Three Dog it made little sense to bare my soul. An easy target would have been someone fresh from the vault, scared of everything, and tricked into detonating a warhead that killed dozens of people. I wanted people to stay away from me. So, I lied.

In the vault I had convinced myself that people were good. Now… I wasn’t so sure. Quickly the wasteland chipped away my goodwill. People stole from me, wasted my time, threatened me, beat me down, and took advantage every opportunity they got. Months after Megaton I was tricked again for the ownership of Tenpenny Tower. It was right around then that I decided “if the world is going to knock me down, why not knock back”. Hypocrites praised me while also handing me caps to do their dirty work.

“There were gaps,” Charon said, “things you wouldn’t explain and I’d have to put together some rational reason why it was. Like the fancy-new fatman in your foot locker. That was given to you by the Brotherhood, wasn’t it?”

I continued to say nothing.

“Your endless supply of caps. The odd memorabilia. Your scars.”

“Of course I have scars. Everyone has them.”

The ghoul finally lost his patience. “You could have died!” he shouted.

“Is that why you’re so pissed? Because of a _could have?_” I seethed, but doing so just made my head pound harder. I lowered my voice. “What of you last night? You _could have_ died, and I _could be_ the one who’s pissed off, because you didn’t say anything sooner. You keep your secrets and I’ll keep mine. I'm not proud. I've done a lot of fucked-up shit and I can't stand people calling me a saint. I liked what we had without you knowing. You expected less.”

Charon laced his fingers together and took a moment to think. He mumbled a few words to himself and nodded. “You steal,” he finally said.

“I do.”

“You murder.”

“Sometimes.”

“You traffic people.”

“What?” I asked.

“You heard me,” he gruffed. The ghouls voice was even rougher than usual. The small pot bubbled before him and Charon removed it from the hot burner. He poured hot water into a tin mug with coffee grounds, and then stirred it with a tarnished spoon. He tapped the spoon’s handle against the edge of his mug and tossed the utensil onto the counter. The ghoul watched as the dark liquid in his cup twirled the coffee grounds by the spoon’s leftover inertia, and the few grounds that didn’t sink to the bottom were plucked out with his finger tips. “The radio speaks well enough of the missing homeless, Paradise Falls upping its security, and after last night… it’s you. It’s always been you.” The ghoul quickly swallowed back his coffee and slammed the mug down. The sound of thin metal on granite nearly peeled me out of my skin.

“Yeah,” I whispered as I looked down at my own mug. On second thought… I wasn’t that thirsty. I gently returned the coffee to the table beside me. “Some of it’s true… A lot of it. I always wonder how much Three Dog reports because he thinks it’s true, or because he knows it’ll influence more listeners.”

“What are you not telling me?”

“I'm scared of lizards and dislike mutifruit.”

Charon rolled his eyes. “Don’t rebut me again. I’m not just mad about you putting yourself in danger. I know you. I know that the reason you miss 7 of 10 shots at long distances is because you can’t see them. I know how both of your ankles are weak. And I know you don’t eat nearly enough protein. I need to know every detail of your life so that I can do my job.”

I clicked my tongue. He’d been busy. “Okay,” I said quickly.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” I grabbed my mug, stood and walked back into the kitchen. I poured my coffee down the sink. Everything goes into the sink for some other poor sap to take care of. Maybe that sap’ll be me the next time I’m visiting the capitol. The deserted building with all of our secrets was better than the insincere smiles of Underworld or testosterone-fueled soldiers hungry for boobs. “We’re talking about the slaves, right?”

Charon tilted his head to the side with a faux disinterest as he turned off the raido on my pipboy and handed the lifeline back to me. I secured the child-sized computer around my forearm and shook my wrist to make sure it wasn’t about to fall off. Everything felt secure. _Deep breath._

“I helped them. The way I saw it, they were starving, dehydrated, and had nothing left to keep them going. At least as servants they had shelter and a full belly.” I stood across from him and leaned my hips against the same counter I’d smashed buffout on the night before.

  
”What made you stop?” he asked.

“Children, mostly. I guess I didn’t realize that servitude was more than just washing dishes. Slavery has a different kind of weight to it. I know that now. And I’m trying to undo some of that damage… while still lining my purse. IF I’m being perfectly honest.”

“There are some fates worse than dying,” he agreed as he took a step in my direction. His eyebrows were furrowed with intensity as he looked down at me, like he was trying to decide something. He slowly crossed his arms over his chest and palmed the bandage through his shirt.

  
“Is that how you feel about your fate?” I asked, tilting my head downward but keeping my eyes trained on his.

Charon took so much time replying, I wondered if he had anything else to say, but finally it came out. “I used to.”

I snorted air through my nose at the cheesy sentimentality and shoved both my hands into my coat pockets. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The ghoul afforded me a half-smile and with sincere conviction he leaned forward so that his face was near mine. I could smell the acidic coffee on his lips, the savory smoke on his skin, and a sort-of sweetness from gun oil. “You’re not Azruhkal, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

_That’s because you don’t know the worst of it._

I debated telling him of how worried I’d been last night. That I’d cried for him, our friendship, and all the awful choices I’d made that led the Capitol to now. But this was another instance where I did not know how to be brave. There was a lot of fixing-things that still had to take place.

Without mentioning how I’d considered going home, I side-stepped the uneasiness of our conversation by laying directly into my plan. “We’re going to see a man named Sister. He’s neutral. Collects escaped slaves and brings them back, but has been known to look the other way. He’ll know where people are hiding, convoy trails, and… perhaps confirm a rumor about a behemoth watch-dog.”

The ghoul grinned at that. “Behemoth? You promise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Charon, for being my exposition man. Now that we have a little bit of Shae out of the way, let’s talk about you. Did you honestly make the first cup of coffee for someone else and think we wouldn't judge you? Because we noticed. And we’re judging.
> 
> For continuity, let’s play… What’s in the backpack!
> 
> Utility knife with a can-opener  
Two tin mugs, two tin plates, a fork and knife  
Water canteen  
Food rations  
One badly-beaten pot  
One small gas-burner  
Blanket roll  
Small medical kit  
Soap  
Lucky Bobblehead


	8. Bazzar

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

A quarter of a mile away the four hydro pumps worked tirelessly. Our ears deafened by the aggressive amount of water that was sucked into the memorial building, filtered, and pushed back out again into the Potomac river. The familiar naked statue of the man holding a giant hoop with his genitals blasted off by trauma or gunfire was still laying on the ground, his twin upright and bragging. __People back then were so weird.__

The familiar metal bridge that led to the ships main entry was slippery with displaced moisture. I curtly waved to the hired gun at the main-entry door. He nodded his salutations and waved us forward as he relaxed his rifle.

Rivet City would be better served by ultra-jet junkies on their second day of withdrawal. Last year the Council invited me to host a basic science lesson. I gave them a lengthy explanation on how it’ll take several centuries before the water would truly qualify as drinking safe, and they chose to balk about the radiation that seeps through the metal walls of the lower ship levels. __Of course it’s poison__. The sediment at the bottom of the river isn't being upturned and I'm not about to play with the partitions of my father's program to try and adjust that. I suggested to the Council that they stand under the pumps for a clean drink and be skinned alive by the water pressure, but they didn't like that. They didn't want to talk about engaging their scientific community, the half-life of radioactive material, and statistically how it'll take decades for the riverbank to sustain any sort of complex plant life akin to algae. They wanted best-case outcomes, and I don't do that. However, I do lunge over chairs and hurt people. Which could explain the heightened security around key figures and why I must request an escort to visit the science lab.

I had a sudden feeling of unease and my heart dropped into the bottom of my bowels like tripping the wire of a booby-trapped grenade in a stairwell. I quickly looked over my shoulder to find Charon.

The large ghoul still stood at the start of the bridge with both hands locked tight to the rail. His thick brows were drawn downward as he watched the Jefferson Memorial and the water that flowed out of it. Everyone referred to the hydro-station as Project Purity, but to me it was a cemetery for bad memories.

“Hey!” I shouted over the sound of rushing water. He either didn't hear me or was too gone in his own thoughts to notice. “Charon!”

_ _We need to get inside._ _

_ _

I carefully approached him like a radroach stalking a scrap of meat at the edge of a guillotine. I placed my hand on his elbow. “Charon?”

Charon shifted his gaze and looked down to me. His eyes were wide with fear and bewilderment. His lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Let’s go.” I said and softly pulled his arm toward the Rivet City entry way. He looked again at the violent water, rolled his lips in, and jerked his elbow from me. The ghoul exhaled and watched me with the same level of perplexity as he had for the pumps. I held my breath and felt a cold shiver shake my entire frame. Wet wind pushed against us and the metal bridge beams, attacking flakes of rusty, peeling paint. My stomach turned again as the bridge sighed.

_ _Does he _ _ _ _remember_ _ _ _?_ _

_ _

My hand froze in mid air, my heart stopped, unsure of whether to find my pocket, my gun, or jump off the bridge entirely. I never gave much thought to the idea of fighting him, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities and I wasn’t sure if I had the drive to fight him off.

Suddenly, the ghouls large hand took my own and held it firmly. My small, icy fingers nearly vanished into his large palm.

I couldn’t read the frown on his face, but he squeezed my hand with a confusing sort of reassuring sincerity, let go, and then left me behind as he walked to the great ship that was a city.

Inside the marketplace colorful bands of freshly died cloth hung from the ceiling’s rafters and transformed the lighting to reflect rainbows on the floor and walls. There were more shops than I could count and the old hanger was so busy that shoppers mindlessly bumped one another as they browsed and bartered. The thick aroma of slow-cooked meat was heavy in the air. News about the filtration system must have attracted travelers, investors, and families.

“Do you think it’s a wee bit crowded?” I asked. The room hummed with human thunder as each person tried to talk over the other. It was a sensory overload.

Charon whistled his agreement as he surveyed the room.

“Let’s find us some stim’s.”

I descended the steep metal steps and was annoyed the moment my feet touched the floor. Too many people. The head of security, Harkness, must be overwhelmed keeping his inflated robot head straight. To my left a small man worked meticulously unraveling and recycling the threads of pre-war clothes. For sale he had piles of bulky yarn and thin threads rolled around empty, plastic tampon dispensers. Beside him was a butchers stand where an older woman openly hung a handful of black birds by their thighs and let the blood drain into a tall, dented aluminum trash can. After that was what I assumed to be a spice stand with small bowls of salts and herbs. Further down was a toy store, a hair dressers chair, Flak and Shrapnels shit shop, and so on and so forth. Finding what we needed could take a while.

We were approached by the neighborhood tour guide. He was a very tan man with a strong New York accent I couldn’t quite place.

“I see you’re not from here,” he said as he gestured widely with his arm to frame the stands behind him. He wore a large, gray ballcap and a pair of very wide pants. “Tell you where to find what for a cap.”

_ _So predatory._ _

“What do you think, big guy?” I asked and elbowed Charon in the forearm.

The bodyguard scratched the red and gray shadow that stippled his chin. His facial hair grew slowly in patches, and unlike smooth men he could usually get away with not shaving for a week. I wished to be embraced as delicately as he holds an open blade to his uneven face.

“You’re cheap,” Charon said, “but you hate crowds more.”

I winced. He knew me so well. I unzipped my leather coat and reached inside to the make-shift pocket along the coats silky inner-seams. Grasping a few spare caps, I held them out to the man, but did not offer them to be taken.

“Four caps,” I said, “for four tips.”

If the man was surprised by my generosity, he did not show it. He held his poker face and said nothing.

“Medical supplies. Bottled booze. Greasy, hot breakfast. And a man named Sister.”

The southern man smiled widely and displayed several black gaps where teeth had once been. “For five caps,” he said, “I’ll show you personally where each is.”

“Show away,” I said. I found a fifth cap and paid him. Charon tightened his gun holster and walked closely behind us. Even in a place where there was a surplus of soldiers adorning black security gear, the ghoul made it his mission to protect me.

_The third cigarette burned as the smoke went down. Black char stuck to the wet corners of my mouth, throat, and lungs as I sucked for as long and as deeply as I could. I lazily opened my mouth to blow a smoke ring, but was over powered by the cough that muscled its way out of my throat. I bent forward and hacked uncontrollably, waving my arm up in a mock surrender. Charon chuckled and plucked the cigarette from me, pinching the moist filter between his lips and grinning._

_“You like that?” he growled as he examined the bent playing cards in front of him. Our Tenpenny Suite was trashed._

_I hit the coffee table with my empty fist. He was already too drunk to shoot straight and I was rushing to catch up._

_“How?” I croaked, “How can you do that?”_

_Charon grinned, “Keep practicing. You'll get there.“_

_I stole his mostly empty glass and sloshed the flat, caramel-colored liquid inside with a roll of my wrist. I gulped down what remained. The blend of nukacola and whiskey was a dangerous pairing that went down easy, but swept my legs out from under me if I wasn’t paying attention. I could feel my toes tingling._

_“If I try again I'm going to die of nicotine poisoning.”_

_“Here,” the large ghoul reached across the table and offered the cigarette back to me. “Just keep your tongue back.”_

_I took the cigarette from him, but dropped it into the empty glass to burn out. We awkwardly sat on the floor with our half-hearted card game and the crumbling leftovers of sugar bombs spread between us. How late was it?_

_"What time did you get in?" I finally asked._

_The only reason we were both up was because he’d accidentally woken me when he came home. I wasn’t sure which of the women downstairs he was hosting a fling with, because it wasn’t my business, and he never walked straight to our suite afterwards. Charon was the pacing type who walked around the halls or nursed a stale beer at the bar. He avoided coming home for as long as possible._

_The ghoul sighed and leaned back, bracing his full weight on the floor with both of his hands. "After,” he said as his shoulders hunched upward._

_"Did you at least pay for her drink?"_

_"I even walked her to her door," Charon said coyly._

_"Hmm. The perfect gentlemen."_

_He lifted his scarred brow and drew his lips together. Serious. Always so serious. Dogmeat laid down beside him and rubbed his face against the ghouls leg. Charon mindlessly pat him. The two were becoming better pals than Grognak and his talking sword._

_"You should rest - I’m going to step out for a bit,” the ghoul sighed as he rubbed his free hand over his eyes._

_"No. Don't go,” I pleaded as I put my hand over his bare forearm. I gently traced my fingernails over the uneven flesh and drew circular shapes._

_I tried to play it cool. But the speed of my hand darting across the coffee table and the depth of my voice gave me away. I wanted him to chase the lonely away._

_The large ghoul lowered the hand covering his eyes and looked at me with the sort of confusion that was akin to “what the fuck?”. His eyes investigated every aspect of me as he controlled his breathing. One breath in, 1234 - one breath out, 1234. It’s what he did to keep his mind clear and actions calm._

_"Sober up, smoothie..."_

_I stopped drawing circles on his arm. It wasn’t my pride that was wounded so much as it was the confusion fluttering in my stomach… what kind of man, ghoul or otherwise, passes up an opportunity to get laid? I pouted my lips and scrunched my nose at him._

_"...then I'll consider it." he said._

_I felt uncomfortable. Which was a strange thing to consider because I’d never been turned down before. We needed to tip the scales._

_“We!” I declared as I stood upright. “Need more to drink.”_

_I walked to the main entry door, and grabbed my coin-purse and spare key._

_Charon coughed. “You’re going downstairs like that?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Without pants?”_

_“... yes.”_

_The ghoul squinted his eyes. “How drunk are you?”_

_“Drunk enough that when I come back… we’re hauling a mattress outside!” I said as I pointed to the bed and then to the patio door. My arm suspended as I tried to think of the next thing I was going to say. There’s a linear path somewhere._

_The ghoul grunted as he stood upright, his knees and joints popping from his slouched stupor on the floor. Dogmeat’s head slid off the ghouls thigh and was relocated between his own paws. Charon grabbed a dirty pair of my slacks from the floor and his shotgun from the bookcase. I snorted at how he needed his beloved gun to buy beer._

_“Why’re we moving the bed?” he asked as he handed me the pants and stepped into his boots._

_I beamed as I ran my fingers through my curly dark hair. “To see the stars.”_

There were no vacant hotel rooms to book, the church wasn’t open to travelers with my face, and Sister could eat my left testicle for no reason other than I don’t like him. Sure, he told us everything we needed - he even drew a pretty map. But, iguana turds on a stick, he was expensive. Charon and I stood in the second floor hallway of the crowded ship with our arms crossed over our chests and shooting strangers dirty looks. Me, mostly, because I was mocking him. A crisp and freshly painted sign that read “No loitering” was obscured by us blocking it. I inched sideways and braced my left arm against him. He didn’t budge.

Charon was distracted. He rubbed is thumb and pointer finger together and mindlessly picked at the peeling skin around his nail beds, his glare shifted to the wall opposite of us instead of the people who passed. I leaned more of my weight into him, but he wasn’t up to playing.

“What was that building over there? With the pipes and water pouring out of it?” the ghoul asked, his voice seeming as distant as his thoughts.

I nodded. He’d seen the memorial before. We cleared it of super mutants just before my dads death. I cried for hours in a boat and bait shop not far from where it happened. The most comforting thing Charon had said to me that night was, “When you’re ready, smoothskin”. __I’m still not ready.__

“That’s… Project Purity. It’s deactivating the radiation in the river…”

“Purifying?” he asked.

I relaxed my head against his bicep.

“Some scientist and his colleagues used the tiny baby paws of orphan puppies to filter the Potomac river, but they died before they could finish the job. Somebody came back about a year ago and got it running.” I said as I drew my fingers close together to exaggerate the small size of the mentioned puppy paws.

Charon took several minutes to himself to dissect my story from the truth. “You mean 101?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You?”

“Yeah.”

The ghoul shrugged his shoulder and bumped me away from him. “I don’t like the look of that place. It makes me anxious.” he said.

“Me too, big guy,” I laughed and bumped him back, “Me too.”

He puffed his breath and looked down at me. That five-o’clock shadow on his square jaw really wasn’t helping me forget how much I wanted to shimmy up him like a tree. I crossed my left foot in front of my right and stepped on my own toes.

“Can we find someplace quiet that’s not a disease-infested bathroom stall? I think I’d like that stimpack now.” Charon said as he counted another stranger..

Rivet City’s hallways would be less confusing if everything didn’t look the same. Leading Charon around the ship by memory, the first vacant storage space that came to mind was one full of filing cabinets. The doorway had a tall baby gate within its frame and it’d been re-purposed to a children’s daycare center. Giving an ornery ghoul medical attention while toddlers poked at his leathery skin probably wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had, but it certainly wasn’t the best.

The second room we tried was funky - and not the fresh kind of funk. It had the type of stank that could choke a bloatfly covered in the rotting remains of a Death Claws gallbladder. We both held our breath and closed the door.

We explored the lower levels until we saw the fading “Capitol Preservation Society” sign.

“Ehhh?” I pointed my thumb to the door. “Third times a charm?”

“Let’s just get this over with so we can go home,” Charon grumbled. He must have been more desperate for seclusion than I was.

We walked through the doorway and stepped onto the upper deck of the museum. A mostly-complete drone hung from the ceiling in the shape of a fighter jet.

“Hey, Abraham!” I called out to the old man who’d sent me on a number of assignments to find junk, or as he called them “valuable artifacts of American history”. The ghoul and I exchanged glances and waited for a response. “Is anyone there?”

The only residents present in the museum were the mannequins who waited to be dressed in occupational wear and military uniforms.

“Come on,” I said to Charon and waved him inside.

The ghoul lowered his head to clear the doorway and searched the room for exits. “It’s not particularly private,” he said as his voice echoed in the open space.

I closed the door behind him and I shuffled the backpack’s strap down my arm until I could grab it with my fist. My other hand held tightly to the carbine’s sling that stretched diagonally across my torso.

“Stop your moaning,” I said. Charon muttered a few choice words to himself as he followed me down the stairs to the workbench. A wrench, hotplate, full-tool box, and schematics sat on the wooden, waxed table top. It was nothing like the functional workbench I had at home, and illustrated all of the qualities of “display only, do not touch”. Through-out the room there were other display tables propped up by mismatched legs. There’d been a clear attempt to organize the tables by theme, but most of them were a hard guess with so few items to display.

While I searched through the backpack to find the quality stimpacks we haggled for earlier that morning, Charon rested his shotgun onto the lower shelf of the bench, worked off his stiff armor and belts, and dropped them on the floor.

“Keep your shirt on,” I said.

The ghoul frowned. “Do I seem impatient?”

“No. Ehh. Literally. Not figuratively.” I said as I pushed aside my dirty scarf from the front pocket and found a stimpack resting underneath it. I bit the plastic casing around the sterile needle and jerked my head to the side, and spit the orange cap into my hand. “You ready?” I asked.

Charon hummed and untucked his shirt, lifting the hem just enough to show his ribs and the waves of muscle. I sighed. __No perverted thoughts__.

I gently touched the mess of stitches, scabs, and red flesh that I’d put together less than twenty-four hours before. It was hot, but there was no new blood and clear fluid oozed from him as the wound healed.

A lot happened last night. I had kissed him. An unruly warmth came to my cheeks and painted me an extravagant red blush.

“You know…” I bit my lower lip and whispered, “I kissed you while you were sleeping.”

I could see the whites of his eyes as he looked down at me, waiting for the shot. “What?” he whispered back.

I shoved the stimpack’s needle into the gash, and with two hands delicately pushed the plunger. Charon grunted. The clear serum went into his body and immediately began its work on the surface skin and muscle. The stitches I’d given him were forcibly evicted from his body, and I plucked the loops of fishing line and flecks of dry tissue until the whole thing came unraveled. Within seconds there was nothing left to the ghouls wound but a gnarly scar.

“Figured I’d take my chance while I could. Since you said I was ugly and all,” I quipped. I distracted myself by putting the stimpack syringe and fishing line into my backpacks outer pocket for safe disposal later. The amount of cockyness to my antics surprised me. I must be bored.

“Smoothie…” Charon scoffed and shook his head. He clicked his tongue. "I've had a hard on for you since the morning you poured whiskey and left your bloody fingers on my glass."

Without much thought I trained my eyes on his, hooked my finger through his belt, and pulled him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooo. This must be silly, because I think that poor history museum is about to get all kinds of disrespected.


	9. Unprofessional

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

The bravery of his statement had knocked the smile off of my face in a good way. My mouth became dry as my saliva glands stopped water production and my tongue couldn’t find a comfortable place to rest in my own mouth. With my finger pinned between his belt and waist, I averted his gaze and I tried to think of something funny to say. I wanted to diffuse what was about to happen.

Why did I speak so candidly? Was this what I __really __wanted? In the years we’d known each other, shared living space, and essentially ran around to do whatever I wanted, he’d never once been so brazen. Something within Charon shifted - he wrote a very clear letter of intent and signed his name along the dotted line.

I’m not sure what I was thinking.

My feet moved forward. My hands went up as professionalism took a holiday. I gripped the fading, black fabric around his shoulders and pulled him towards me. I stood on the tips of my toes and gave him a gentle open mouth kiss. He tasted even better awake than he did sleeping. His mouth was greasy from the crow eggs and canned beans he’d eaten for breakfast.

Charon’s hands found the small of my back and, much to my surprise, he tenderly returned the kiss. I didn’t expect him to be so gentle. After witnessing the way he so easily punched down skulls and overpowered so many threats… I wasn’t prepared for the restraint he exhibited now in this moment. Despite the mildness of his reaction, there was also an edge of ferocity looming just below the surface. Like he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t. I could feel the tension in his fingers as he greedily bent into me and pressed my hips tightly into him. The ghouls tongue traced my bottom lip like he was laying out battle plans to keep us occupied for the next hour. I brutally responded by sinking my canine into his own lip instead.

_ _

He quickly and quietly inhaled as the unexpected pain sent warning-pulses to his foggy-man brain.

“Smoothie. Did you just bite me?” He asked with his lips still pressed to mine. With eyes closed I could feel the smile on his mouth and dimples in his cheeks.

His chuckle was throaty and deep - a vibrato resonating heavily within his chest. I wanted to hear more. The ghoul took hold of my carbine’s sling and helped me lift the gun over my head. Charon gently placed the weapon onto the lower workbench shelf on top of his own shotgun without taking his other hand off of me.

While savoring the rusty tinge of his blood in my mouth, I shifted my hands to his side and gently traced my fingers over each of the many old and new scars on his torso as I remembered them.

_ _This isn’t really happening._ _

_ _

The ghoul hungrily came back for another kiss. He scooped his hands down my back, gripped just above my thighs, and lifted me up like I weighed nothing. My legs dangled by his grip as Charon pivoted his feet towards the workbench and planted me down on the smooth surface. He clumsily shoved the workbench’s display items to the edge of the table to give us a wider perimeter, then grabbed my hips tightly with both of his hands. Our anatomy was level. He pushed himself close to me with eagerness between his legs. Over his shoulder there was a clear view of the museums stairwell and entrance. We were clear. Who cares about thingamajigs and doodads before lunch anyhow?

Running my hands over his shirt, up his torso, and resting on his chest, I lavished the dips and rises between each individual muscle as they relaxed and flexed in response to my touch. How much of what I was feeling through his shirt was the original skin he’d been born with and how much of him was the odd texture all ghouls develop as their bodies preserve like living, interactive, history exhibits? He sighed against my mouth.

My lips were pricked by the hair on his chin as I laid a line of bites and kisses down him, and licked the salt on his neck. I ran my fingers through his patchy red hair, grabbed a fistful, and pulled his head back to claim his adams apple and trachea.

__This is mine. __And everything else attached to it.

As I enjoyed the line of his jaw and sharpness of his other features, his hands slithered to my front and unzipped my Tunnel Snakes jacket. The heavy black leather practically opened itself for him as it bent with the weight of the brass knuckles in my pocket. Between my jacket and tanktop his fingers took inventory of everything I had to offer while avoiding the very spot that I wanted him most. I told myself to breathe slowly and maintain a sense of calm. Control. But inside I was screaming at him to just get it over with and grab a handful. My dry streak was dizzying my good judgement, not unlike the first, second, and subsequent times that followed where I slept with Butch years ago in the vault.

Above us the ceiling fans automatically turned themselves on and buzzed with excitement. The propellers spun clockwise as they worked in unison to push down a cool breeze to anticipate the unbearable heat that would soon take over the ship as the sun rose higher. Charon’s body radiated a heat that had me shivering in an otherwise very warm room.

_ _There._ _

_ _

Finally his hands found the intersection where my shirt was tucked into my leggings. He pulled at the tight waistband and drew his fingers under the hem of my shirt to lift it up. Everywhere he touched was like leaving a trail of promises of where he’d return.

_ _

_ _Wait._ _

_ _

What were we doing?

Letting lust entertain us through post-nuclear DC, obviously, but if I was going to give myself to him there’s better places than this. Better circumstances than this. If it was going to happen I needed to know that things wouldn’t get weird… because __weird__ is one thing we couldn’t have. With all the other things we had to figure out … __weird__ would be very, very bad. __What’s weirder than sex with a ghoul?__

_ _

I considered subduing the flame in my groin with a reality check. I closed my eyes and grabbed both of his wrists.

“Charon,” I breathed, “Stop.”

He hovered for a moment with his head cocked back and eyes focused on the ceiling. His breath fresh on my face. Charon didn’t seem convinced, but respected my request and stopped whatever it was he intended to do. Did he listen because he wanted to, or because the contract I held around my neck told him to? Both of his hands stayed put with one just below where he was about to glide over my breast , and the other braced my lower back. The simple inaction of staying put with his groin pressed tightly against my own, combined with the way his broad shoulders loomed over me, were undoing my resolve.

My eyes opened and I pulled myself away from him, lifting my head and straightening my back to try and catch his eyes so he would know I was serious. __I was being serious, wasn’t I?__

“We can’t do this,” I said.

The ghoul kept his focus on the ceiling and sighed. “Why?” he asked.

“I have to be real with you. We haven’t bathed in four days. You smell like a corpse.”

Charon rolled his head down and starred at me dryly with hooded eyes.

“I mean. You’re covered in dry blood,” I said. __Reminder__. __Ghouls don’t like to be confused with semi-dead, mostly dead, and absolutely-sign-the-death-certificate-and-alert-the-morgue-dead.__

“Are you saying you want me to stop?”

_ _Shit no._ _

The way he asked his question was so careful and well-put, there was no way he wasn’t thinking about the contract. What would he be doing if his body had the input of free will?

“I don’t know.” I said while drawing my eyebrows together. The workbench felt sturdy underneath me and cheered me on to stick to my guns. I felt guilty having this amount of power over anyone. It was more satisfying to read the person, put on the show, and earn compliance. Charon was a different kind of social challenge.

The ghoul nodded, and then snickered to himself. “Okay,” he said, “I get it.”

I sighed relief. Nothing was more soothing than validation and affirmation. It was permission to be an indecisive tease, and I was thrilled.

Charon hummed and watched me critically. The smirk still on his face as he looked me up and down. A red hot blush flushed my cheeks even more prominently than before as I realized how wet and swollen my lips were, and how unsteady my breath had become. I would consider myself a confident woman, but in this moment I was as unsure and awkward as I had been my first time.

“So,” the ghoul said. I waited for the second part of his sentence, which eerily turned to a husky whisper, “Does that mean the fun stops?”

My breath over inflated itself in my lungs and took up housing there. There was no exhale. “What kind of fun?” My heart did handsprings and somersaults between reliable beats.

He was so smooth.

Charons warm hand left the skin it claimed underneath my breast and glided down, along my hips, and finally stopped as it cupped me between my legs. His hand was on the outside of my leggings as he pressed the meat of his palm into me. My stomach automatically curled inward and my breath escaped.

I gripped his bare forearm with one hand and braced my weight on the table with the other.

I moaned as I closed my eyes. My voice echoed in the exorbitantly large chamber of the museum.

What was I saying? I just called it off, and yet all I did was trade one extreme for another. He was good. No wonder he was able to talk himself into so many other beds. And… I was impressed. If I wasn’t so distracted I’d be standing with applause.

Reason and resolve stole an Enclave’s helicopter and flew away with their middle-fingers brazenly waving back at me.

I took his mouth again with my own and hosted an ebb of urgency. We both were quickening our pace. The pressure between my legs built as he began to rub in a circular motion. My hands were carefree as I seized his belt, found the buckle, slipped the metal from the leather, and teased the button of his pants. I didn’t need anything extravagant. I’ve cautiously waited years, and here he was promising a quicky. We could make this work.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he pushed me deeper into the table to improve his leverage. I imagined my pants as a barrier and moving them up my legs just enough to get them out of the way. Locking my knees together, lifting my ankles over his shoulder, and arching my back against the table to give him access.

As I shimmied back on the table my elbow collided with something heavy.

An object gave as I accidentally pushed, and suddenly it wasn’t there. The aluminum metal floor cried out from the blunt-force trauma of the falling object. The sound of shattering glass followed. We were enjoying ourselves so much that we lost track of how far we’d moved the display items.

Charon and I stopped just long enough to register what was happening, and what wasn’t, and determined it safe enough to continue on. The ghoul pressed his tongue to his bottom teeth as he shoved the elastic band of my leggings and panties down. We worked together to scoot my round backside just enough out of my clothing that we could move on without the barrier.

Just then the creak of a rusty hinge resonated throughout the massive space. With wide-eyed panic my eyes focused beyond Charon, up the stairs, and to the main entry way. The door was closed. There were no visitors.

That meant… Abraham's apartment just around the corner.

“Who’s there?” The voice was heavy and inept with the side effects of waking from an early nap. If the ships walls were made of glass we’d have been seen and reported. There were too many stories of society taking up torches and pitchforks the moment they suspected more than business between a ghoul and human.

Charon yanked his hands from me and worked hastily to do up his belt. Frustration radiated off of him like he was a glowing one about to discharge. He said nothing as he stepped back and gave me room to get down. I could still feel the warmth and wetness he’d stroked between my thighs as I slid off the workbench and secured my panties and leggings up and over. I eased myself down to the floor and squat by the broken glass to make myself look pre-occupied. I couldn’t care less about the mess we’d made. My leather jacket still hung open from our activity and I was clearly disheveled.

The old man came around the corner, took a few moments to take in the scene, and finally called out. “Oh, Shae. It’s you!” he proclaimed with relief, “What was that ruckus I heard?”

“Sorry, sir,” I chimed. Was this my voice? How did I sound so… together? And respectful? “My companion needed a quick stimpack and the infirmary was busy. I’m just…” I laughed and shook my head. “So clumsy. I’m sorry.”

I held the thick broken shards up for him to see.

The curator adjusted his glasses and shuffled his slippered feet closer to us. He squinted his eyes between me, Charon, and back to me again. The large ghoul rubbed the back of his neck as he eyed me as well.

Finally, Abraham spoke.“Don’t worry about it,” he said, “The darnest thing had a crack between here and the Mississippi. At least now the Council will work on getting me a cleaner, stronger beacon. You’ve done me a favor.”

I forced the fakest, most girlish titter I could stand without vomiting. Was that bile at the back of my throat? __Ick.__

“I’m glad I could help.” I said.

“How’s your dad?”

I stopped collecting glass pieces and froze.

Abraham beamed. “You know, your father used to come here every Tuesday and bring me a gallon of the cleanest water. Always, with the water. He’d say, ‘What’s the use of living if all you got to show for it is kidney stones?’ A good apple, your father.”

I stood with the broken hotplate and glass pieces in my hands and dumped them on the workbenches surface. I didn’t want to answer the question, but luckily, I didn’t have to. The old man snapped his fingers and pointed to the ceiling. “Ah!” he said, “Did you find that portrait of President Abraham Lincoln that I asked you for? He’s the one with a tall, black hat.”

I felt like shrinking so small that I could steal away through a mouse hole and escape the museum undetected. Sure. I’d found a “portrait” of the civil war icon. The lithe doll was sitting on my shelf, at home, covered in dog fur and made up of fourty-percent cigarette smoke. Its beard amused while I was drunk.

“Not yet, sir.” I said grimly, “I’ve been to four different places and not a single drawing, painting, or photograph.”

Abraham nodded. He looked ridiculous in his tweed, sweater vest and messy comb-over hair style. “You’ll find it - I just know you will,” he said encouragingly.

“Yes sir.”

He finally switched his attention from me and onto Charon. He adjusted his glasses once more and squinted, as if he was trying to find a specific name and number in an old style, yellow-paged phone book.

“Did you get yourself sorted, fella?” He asked.

Charon looked at him, but said nothing. He picked up his armor and began readying himself for the long trek home. __If looks could kill.__

I stepped forward, between Charon and the older man, and put my hand out to be shaken. “It was good to see you,” I said, “I promise the next time I come by it’ll be with Mr. President Abraham Lincoln himself and a gallon of the finest water I can find.”

The museum curator took my hand in both of his and shook it with enthusiasm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you get upset. Um. I’m sorry? They’ve got important gear packing, Evergreen Mills raiding, slave saving to do. It’s not like we even needed this chapter for the plot to move along (obvious lie) and there won’t be more romance later (also a lie) and certainly no repercussions (last lie).


	10. Home

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

_“Offensive” was the only word that could even come close to the true awfulness of the odor we smelled. The wind carried the raw perfume of insect blood and petrol-bile, and charred human remains. The smell was so awful it violently drove itself down our throats while black smoke bellowed out of the large hole in the middle of Grayditch - not unlike a pre-war nuclear plant. From the second-story of an old home we had an excellent view for the ant chemical trails and patterns. I lifted my scarf over my nose and tightened the knot that held it there. As long as we kept south of the wind we were invisible to the comically large fire ant soldiers._

_The concept of the contract was still new to me, and the cold of the metal ring was not unlike the ghoul it represented. I followed my thumb along the circular shape and dragged my thumbnail against it. I counted each time my nail caught on the small cuts within the tarnished gold, and observed once again how barely legible his identifying insignia had become on the inner ring. How many times had Charon’s name switched hands? How many of those times ended with violence? Death? Specks of Azruhkals blood permanently dyed the legs of my best-fitting pants._

_“Tell me about the employment contract,” I said as I rested my elbow against a collapsing window frame. Dog Meat tried to seek respite from the heat by laying in the shadowy corner of the room opposite to us. The loveable mutt panted while his elastic tongue lolled outside of his mouth._

_Charon commanded the majority of the window’s gap as he held my carbine loosely to his shoulder. The ghoul stared through the scope, down the barrel, and into the breathing entryway of the ant hive. Arrested between grimacing lips he held his last, dying cigarette. He was covered in ant bites and burns. My entire plan to save a boy, relieve an ant queen, and get some really badass super strength was well on its way to going tits up._

_I rubbed my forearm and popped several small, pin sized blisters that peppered the exposed skin on my left side. Clear liquid oozed from the open wounds and dried, yellow and crusty on my skin in the baking hot sun._

_The ghoul gripped the cigarette, crushed it at the filter, and flicked it to the ground below. “Two years, four days, and sixteen hours.” he said. Gray smoke enhanced each word as the last of the cigarette left his lungs._

_“Try summarizing the provisions,” I replied, actively ignoring his sass._

_The canine in the shadows leisurely got to his four paws and walked over to us. He sniffed my face and licked the dimple of my nose. Dog Meat liked to take part in our conversations._

_Charon exhaled and pulled the trigger. The carbine fired. Forty feet away an antenna rocketed upward and away from the ant it was attached to. The ant screeched the way insects do and frenzied, spitting flames at tumbleweeds and other ant soldiers. If only I could shoot like that._

_The ghoul brought the charging handle of my rifle close to his vacant ear and played with the mechanism. The gun clicked harshly as it indicated the need for a reload and to be cleaned with rubbing alcohol._

_“You haven’t maintained your weapon,” he frowned._

_“Is that part of the contract?”_

_Charon briefly granted me a glance. “You know the terms.”_

_“Yeah, well, I want to hear them again,” I said as I scratched Dog Meat under his collar and waggled my feet. “Give me a reason not to shove this ring up a raiders asshole and plug it with a grenade.”_

_Charon rocked his head side-to-side as he toyed with my gun. He reloaded it and blew grime out from the eye of the safety switch._

_“For good or ill, I serve you for as long as you hold my contract. You do not own me - my service only applies to your protection. If you hurt me, you invalidate the contract. If you lose the contract, destroy the contract, give me the contract, or otherwise compromise the contract, you invalidate the contract. I am the only one who determines what qualifies as invalidation and only I determine the repercussions,” Charon said robotically, but his voice softened, “I am not at odds with killing you if you break your terms.”_

_I nodded, satisfied with his answer, and turned my attention back to the ants._

We reached the outskirts of Tenpenny Tower with empty canteens and a mild sunburn. I should have planned the outing more appropriately. The sun was setting pink on the horizon.

Charon eased himself up to the Tower’s solid fence-line, gripped the comb of his shotgun, and pushed the intercom button with the knuckle of his thumb. He rolled his shoulders against the backpack he volunteered to carry.

It was Sour-Face who replied. Or was it Limpy? _Ghouls all sound the same._

“Who’s there?” Sour-Face sung in-between static. We heard snickering in the background.

“Dumb ways to die,” Charon glowered.

There was a long pause while we waited for someone to unlock the gate. The old chain link hummed and rattled open with Limpy on the other side, hands in his pockets. He was dressed sharply in dingy white attire and polished black shoes like he was on his way to an exclusive party. “You’re late,” he said.

We followed him through the foyer without spooking the ferals, and walked into the main lobby to join Sour-Face. While we were away the carpenters had completed aligning and grouting the shiny, pink marble tile. The greeting desk was waxed and re-purposed as the check-in point by the door. The wasteland had never seen wood so pristine, its waxy surface glimmering under the florescent light bulbs.

Limpy secured the doors behind us by shoving a braided stick of rebar through the heavy brass handles. Sour-Face was similarly dressed in white with the added accessory of a torn straw hat and thong sandals. He leaned over the desk and firmly gripped the clipboard that kept track of everyone who came and went. He flipped through the pages. “Ya’ll’re late.”

“That’s what I said,” Limpy quipped.

“Three days? Four days? We’re going to have to write you up for this. Roy’s not going to be happy,” said Sour-Face as he tapped the clipboard with the eraser end of his pencil.

“That’s not necessary. I know exactly what he’s going to say.”

“Be that as it may, you said dusk several days ago. Respect our time and we’ll respect yours.”

I wasn’t ready for another one of Roy’s hour long rants about conserving supplies, relieving security, and being back at the tower by the exact minute I postulated being back. Even if he had me sign a promise in blood, I’d still find a way to be late just to stick it to him.

Charon pat my shoulder and eased my backpack down beside me.

“Whats up?” I asked him.

“Going home,” he said.

“You’re leaving me to…?” I circled my pointer fingers around themselves and then opened my hands to shrug at the two security ghouls and their fancy, new safety set-up.

The hired soldier walked to the elevator and waved his hand without changing direction, leaving me to check us in by myself. I’d rather stick my head in a Cazador hive.

Briefly I thought of how bad the last few days had been. The ghoul and I faced raiders, got into a physical altercation, chased and cornered by ferals, threatened by raiders, and took part in mediocre surgery on an unsanitary kitchen floor. Charon stirred old memories of Megaton and the kind people who lived there, and the lapse in judgment from an optimistic, bright-eyed, new settler who didn't know what's-what. Then there was… whatever that was in Rivet City. My breath hitched just thinking about where his hands had been.

_There’s something delicious about a cha_ _llenge._

I didn’t have the energy for a solid performance to get me out of Roy’s rant, but I greasing the wheels wasn’t entirely out of the question. Clapping my hands together I squat down and pillaged my backpack. I pulled out a long bottle of spiced wine, with the cork still tight, and sat it daintily in front of the guards.

“You expectin’ us ta share?,” asked Sour-Face.

I pulled a second bottle from the pack and sat it beside the other. “Bottled and aged in Rivet-City herself,” I chimed. “Both yours in exchange for…” I stood and tapped my name on the clipboard with the blank line-item for my return, “…fixing the book.”

“You think we accept bribes?” Limpy sneered.

“Yes,” I nodded sweetly, “Yes, I do.”

Sour-Face shook the eraser end of his pencil at me, and then scribbled a day and time that had already passed. “Don’ let this happen again.”

I squealed a little too loudly and blew double-kisses - one for each of them. _It’s good to be home._

Instead of heading straight up to my suite I chose to explore the aesthetic changes that were happening within Tenpenny Tower. It was all too exciting to save for tomorrow.

Dapper music in the lobby played soft and quiet, but the base had that special timing that made patrons want to stay up late and buy more booze.

Grasping the top handle of my backpack I made my way to the far end of the lobby and circled back to the front. The old plaster walls were patchy with new mud to plug cracks, and the tacky lighting fixtures with the tear-drop beads had been replaced with frosted scones. The community sofas, chairs, and tables still had plastic draped over them. There were also buckets of pigment neatly stacked near the start of the staircase. My chest filled with pride. Despite all the messed up stuff that happened to get me here, I felt… not unhappy.

A loud burst of laughter from multiple ghouls gripped my attention. With mild curiosity I walked towards the noise and peeked my head through the doorway of the Federalist Lounge. Most of the male ghouls who lived at the Tower were dressed entirely in white with beers in hand, including Winthrop.

“And that’s when I said, “No wonder the dogs are following you. You smell like beef jerky!” A female ghoul declared, and the group around her roared again with laughter.

I grinned and dropped my backpack by the barstool closest to the Underwolrd mechanic.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked as I sat down beside him.

“Shae! How’ve you been? You’re late!” Winthrop beamed and raised his glass. He bumped me with his wrist.

“I’ve been hearing that a lot tonight,” I waved-in the robot bartender, signed two with my fingers, and pointed to the open counter space in front of me. “What’re we celebrating?”

“Oh! This?” Winthrop tugged on his white shirt and exposed the gap where it was missing two buttons in the center. Through the gap I could see the slight roundness of his belly and the fat he’d earned.

“Yah. That.”

Winthrop took a swig from his beer glass. “Roy’s taking so long to wed Bessie, we thought it’d be fun to dress up like brides and bust into his room. He kicked us out, and we ended up here.” He said as he powered down his beverage like his rent depended on it. White foam sat bloated at the bottom of the glass.

The robot across the counter shuffled towards me with two, dingy glasses in his mechanical hook hands. I watched as it cautiously sat down the glasses and poured the only bubbly, yellow lager that it had on tap. I could smell the hops from where I sat.

“Thanks, Shakes,” I said and held my hand out for him to receive payment. The protectron was an older model and took its time to process movement that was too quick or out of context. Shakes took several long, pregnant moments to compute, but he reliably accepted the caps and thanked me with his choked, prerecorded voice.

I slid the extra beer to Winthrop.

“So… what’ve you and the bouncer been up to?” he asked. The mechanic took the beer and drank from it to show his thanks. There was no way of telling how strong the alcohol was just by watching the ghouls around me. I’d have to take it easy if I didn’t want to stumble my way home.

“Bouncer? He hasn’t had that job for years,” I said and took the first sip from my still yeast-cloudy glass.

Winthrop shrugged meekly, “He may as well have shot me while you were leaving.”

“He wants to shoot everyone. His gun was holstered. You’re fine. Believe me. If he wanted you dead, you’d be there already.”

The ghoul beside me shook his head discerningly, but then poked me in the face with a fingertip that was cold and wet from glass condensation. “Hey. Have you always had freckles?”

_Yep. He’s drunk._

“No,” I swatted his hand away, “A super mutant fart on my face.”

Winthrop laughed, “I like you.”

I smiled and took a longer, more assured drink of the beer to test my pacing. The bar room was so full it violated a fire-marshals safety code if there was one. Several female ghouls played pool while one of the males, who was not playing, tried to give them manly tips to improve their already masterful game. _Give me a break._ Two other ghouls stood by the jukebox invested in a drunken ramble about rockets

I let down my thick hair and scratched my scalp. I tried to brush my fingers through the sun-lightened dark brown coils, but each tangle was more matted than a Yogai’s backside. I huffed at my own neglect.

“Can I touch your hair?”

The question caught me off guard. _Winthrop couldn’t be drunker if he tried._

I sniggered and pointed at him, “That’s aggressive.”

“No, no. I didn’t meant…” Winthrop’s smile dropped from his face as he tried to recover from the social fumble. “It’s just really pretty.”

“You’re okay. I’m just giving you shit.” I pat his back to let him know we were on good terms, and then snapped my fingers to change the subject. “Oh! Where can I find a propeller belt for my T-51b armor?”

Winthrop scratched his cheek and stared out, his eyes looking beyond the other ghouls and bar tender. He traced his finger in circles around the lip of his beer glass.

“Panty hose,” he said.

“Panty hose?”

“It’s flexible, can take a lot of miles, is easy to fit, and the joining knot between one leg and the other is small enough that it doesn’t skip most gears. Unless, of course, you’re talking about an actual replacement piece. May as well just buy and gut a whole other set.” The mechanic pushed his bar stool away from the counter and firmly planted his feet on the ground. He kept one hand on the bar surface to gauge his balance.

The mellow buzz of the bar room was suddenly invaded with hoots and cheers as Limpy and Sour Face returned to the party. In Sour Face’s hands he manhandled two bottles of spiced wine by their long necks, and held them up high for all to see.

“Free drinks for everyone! If the brand is sour, save your complaints for the smoothy.” Limpy declared. The drunks clapped excitedly and huddled around the security guards. The corks popped and hit the ceiling, ricocheted in opposing directions, and landed on the floor to be forgotten. I tried to relax my posture and marvel at the party. They were all so funny and full of life. Being around drunken ghouls made me feel more human than I ever did among smooth-skinned humans.

Winthrop and I stayed for several hours. He, getting more drunk by the glass, and I, guarding the same beer so that nobody walked away with it. My lager was only about halfway gone when a ghoul with long legs, clacking heels, and a slim frame entered the bar. She’d adorned a thick black wig with artificial waves and vibrant red lipstick. She sat down beside me. She had the natural sort of beauty that proved looking-good wasn’t nearly this hard when she lived a different life.

“What are you doing here, smoothskin?” she asked so quietly I could hardly make it out among the other patrons. Her voice was strangled and a wet sheen covered her face. She’d been crying.

I lifted my beer glass and tilted my hand repetitively to show that I was drinking. _Obviously._

She shook her head. “This is a ghouls sanctuary, so why’re you still sniffing around? Just leave us be already.”

I frowned at that. A handful of snarky comebacks and emotionally damaging retorts came to mind, but I put them in a mental box to save for another occasion. The last thing a happy night like tonight needed was the unofficial landlord getting caught up in an altercation.

I bit my tongue out at the woman like a child retaliating to a scolding adult. _Go suck a regulator you prudish dick._

Winthrop leaned a little too closely into my personal space to see who I was talking to. He shook his head, as if his own drunkenness could not be believed, and stepped back. He almost lost his balance and jut his hands wide like a cat reaching for a tree branch.

“I really, really need to turn in,” he said while squinting his eyes at his own feet.

“I got’cha. I’ll follow you back and make sure you don’t vomit on the new floor.” I grabbed my beer one last time and took several long gulps to finish it. My cheapness wouldn’t let me leave the bar otherwise.

The mechanic scrunched his nose and possessively grabbed his beer, as if the glass was a key to unlock his front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate love triangles… even considering them feels cheesy and predictable. So! Look at that cute dog at the start of the chapter. Dog Meat doesn’t get nearly enough story time. Who’s a good boy? Who is it? You are, Dog Meat. It’s you. Yes. You.


	11. Packing Gernades

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

It had taken too long to walk Winthrop up one flight of stairs. His pockets had been filled with every bolt, nut, and loose wire imaginable, and unrealistically jingled each time he threw his weight too far in either direction. It was unlikely that he knew just how close he was from miming a metal slinky falling down a 14 step-long staircase, but his secret was safe with me. Hopefully he’ll remember to thank me later for the glass of water on his night-stand and the large mixing bowl near his sole-bare slippers. I should have written him a bill with a sketch of my middle-finger.

** **

I stepped off the elevator to enter the VIP hallway. The top floor was as narrow as my patience and as desolate as my damns. The elevators doors limped closed, the machine dinged, and the metal box whirled downward to assist another prospective passenger. I approachable the doorway to my suite and held the key in my pocket, but instead of unlocking the door I pushed my forehead against the cool aged oak and closed my eyes. Condensation from my breath pooled on the wood underneath my nostrils as a warm ache in my sinus fanned itself down the bridge of my nose to my cheek bones. Not tending to the nosebleed had become a sort of personal penance for assaulting Charon again. He drew the blood and I dragged it out.

_The colorful bruise must match beautifully to the eternal bags under my eyes._

Walking into my own suite shouldn’t be this hard.

My head nodded with fatigue, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the door. What was it that the ghoul at the Federalist Lounge asked? Why was I still here? It’d have taken balls to admit that I didn’t really want to be anywhere. The air in the Capitol weighed me down with reminders of broken promises and heart break.

The all-knowing Dogmeat interrupted my self-pity when he whined and pawed the door from inside the suite. He’d been so patient for Charon and I to get back from our trip, and now here I was selfishly making him wait longer. I took a deep breath to find my center, unlocked the door, and creaked it open just enough to let him into the hallway.

The canine dramatically burst forward with his rear end bounding into the air. I laughed while his tail violently wagged and his entire body trembled with excitement. I knelt down and kissed him between his hetrochromia eyes. “Hey buddy,” I whispered. “I missed you.”

His ears perched tall like a desert hare listening for beetles digging channels underground. I pressed my lips tightly together and closed my eyes. Dogmeat licked my face and left a thick smear of saliva from my chin to my brown. My face smelled like white rice and pickled beef. I spat air and pushed his chest back. The mutt apologetically settled for affectionately nibbling my scarf.

Charon had once explained that it was common for unwanted dogs to be weaned early from their paternal mothers, which was why Dogmeat often groomed me and nursed my clothes. Maybe he thought I was his mother?

“Did Godfrey walk you tonight?” I whispered as I scratched the tri-colored dog underneath his wiry chin. The ghoul would sooner shave his own ass-crack with a cactus than pick-up a machine’s chore as soon as he got home. Dogmeat perked at the special word. Walk.

“No walk tonight. But you’ll have a long walk in a few days. You can show those slavers a thing or two about-” and in my best impression of an eye-bot recording of President Eden, “-American values and freedom.”

Dogmeat didn’t laugh, but if he was human he’d be rolling on his back and howling. He had a sense of humor like that. Instead the dog touched his cold, wet nose to my neck, stepped forward, and pushed his weight into me for a long hug.

_I missed you too, boy._

As we prepared to storm Evergreen Mills I felt less and less present. My head was foggy from staying out late and avoiding sleep even though I laid in my hammock and wished for it. It was as if every innate action made around me was moving at twice the speed. Charon and I took most of the morning piecing back together my power armor. The entire chest to the machine reverberated romantically as the gears clicked around thick, bright green pantyhose. The winter-inspired pattern on the pantyhose of mythical deer and snowflakes could only be appreciated when the armor was off. Winthrop may have been blasted, but everything held just as he promised. Charon shook the whole metal frame to test it’s stability.

Dogmeat danced around us in the suite as he proudly stretched his upgraded canine armor. The ceramic plates that lined his side's and front were prone to shattering, so we meticulously replaced each piece with a flexible graphite trimmed from retired armor pieces. Focused on safety and practicality, we also removed the grip handle from his back. “Police K-9” was stenciled with peeling, latex, white paint on his flanks.

The ghoul and I pushed the couch against the old bed frame to grant ourselves more floor space. The brahmin knit blanket on the cushions still trapped heat from where Charon had sat only moments prior. I resisted the urge to climb under his blanket and nap.

At the center of the unswept room we stockpiled our supplies, and passed a checklist back and forth to make up for all the times we were caught with our pants down. I marked “Stimpacks x 6” with a confident check, then followed it with “x 10” and a double check. I wasn’t taking chances, much less a shit, for the next 48 hours. Nothing constipates like a fresh stimpack straight to the gut.

I sat down beside a heavy crate of explosives and an unzipped army-gray duffle bag with a canvas strap.

“Pulse mines and grenades,” Charon said fleetingly. His back was turned to me as he stepped up to our work bench and tinkered. The savory soap he'd washed with had already been replaced by his usual perfume that went alongside gun maintenance. The balcony door beside him was widely wedged open with a homemade battery so that we could enjoy natural light and the warm, early summer breeze.

“Could you be less overbearing?,” I huffed. I tied my hair into a rough bun that hung low, below my ear line.

Rummaging through the crate and all of its explosive goodies scared me. Not because I could blow my arm off and should reconsider how I store C-4 detonators, but because I was a hoarder who saved everything for “when I really need it”. To this day I haven't “really needed” anything. Except for maybe someone who could challenge me. And I got that. I quietly snickered to myself as I placed the grenades, three at a time, into the bag.

The ghoul looked over his shoulder. “What’s up, boss?” He asked.

“Nope!” I announced while pushing aside a Vault-Tech lunch box that was held together with duct tape and bottle caps. _Can't let his ego go to his head_. “I’m not sharing nothing.”

Charon pulled back his shotgun’s bolt release so that it spat an empty shell. He pumped the release twice more and another popped out. The two empty shells landed on the table brass-end down and clinked as they teetered. The ghoul peered down the safe end of the guns chamber to void it of surprises, then began the lengthy process of swabbing away carbon residue with oil, t-shirt scraps, and a wooden chop stick.

Charon stiffened. “I thought we weren’t keeping secrets.”

_Secrets, aye?_

“I'll trade you,” I offered as I zipped the duffle bag and slung it over my shoulder. I walked over and delicately dropped the bag down beside the rest of our gear. 

“Let’s hear it.”

I went to the vending machine and ejected a random Nuka cola. A green bottle with a cherry-flavored label clunked into the flapping doorway. I pushed the button again and out popped a diet version of the same variety. I grabbed them both and used the work benches cast-iron vice to pry off the red bottle caps, palming the currencies into my blue shirt's breast pocket. The name “Stu” was embroidered on a patch above the pocket.

I took a quick, bitter mouthful and swished the carbonated beverage between my teeth as the cold bottles perspired in my hands. I swallowed.  
  
“I was just thinking about how you call me out…” I said, “and how rare a treat that is. From anybody. So. Thanks. For that. I guess.” I offered him the diet drink. Charon put his gun down on the table and took the bottle without complaining. It’s all about flavor, not calories. He turned towards me and rested some of his weight against the edge of the table. His adams apple bobbed as he drank.

“That it?” He asked.

I snorted, but kept my tone light. “Why? Are you smitten?”

He relaxed his shoulders and mildly lifted one corner of his mouth, but said nothing.

A warm wind gust into the suite to flap the random posters on the wall and ruffle loose papers from the shelves. A stack of playing cards spread around the room as the wind whistled peacefully.

“My turn,” I said as I made a show of pulling my pants up.

“Yeah? Shoot.”

“What’s the story with black wig?”

Charon tilted his head quizzically and licked his lips as the radiated skin around his cheeks pulled tautly. He looked down at me and accusingly pointed the mouth of the coke bottle. “You talked to Buttercup.”

“She talked to me,” I corrected.

The ghoul nodded. “Old world ghoul. Daughter of the man who invented Giddyup Buttercup – the riding horse toy for girls. It was named after her.”

I held his gaze, feigned a shrug of disinterest, and returned to the checklist.

Charon didn’t hesitate. “Why?”

“She a love interest?”

“Does it matter?”

“Should she? Matter, I mean.”

“What'd she say.” _A demand, not a question._

I sighed. I should have thought more carefully on my insecurities and left it alone_. _“She… nothing. We talked at the bar. She seemed sad.” _Nice recovery._

He winced as he bit his two left canines together. “Everyone’s got a secret,” he said.

I smirked and my eyes twinkled, finally really seeing him for the man that he was (not the cold machine everyone thought of when they learned about his contract). Was he embarrassed? Why? Was she his lover? I wanted to push him for every detail, but a man like Charon would more likely defend his actions rather than explain them. He’ll have to say it in his own time.

“Yeah, I said, “Secrets.”

The large ghoul's eyes slowly searched between the different features of my face before settling on my mouth. I blushed and impulsively licked the corner of my lip with the tip of my tongue to claim a bead of Nuka-Cola. He rolled his own thin lips, bit them between his teeth, and sighed through his shallow nose. If he had nostrils I bet they'd have flared. Charon broke his own trance by turning his head to the open doorway. He pivoted and walked outside to the balcony.

Do I follow him? We could be done talking about this, but there were other things… other confessions I needed to make.

“Dog,” I said and pat my leg. Dogmeat jolted upright from his nap and adorably slammed his head into the swinging fabric of my hammock above him. He pranced to me with the prospect of food, affection, or the promise of an adventure. Little did he know he was playing back-up and giving me a different set of eyes to focus on.

As I walked onto Tenpenny's old balcony Charon stole my lawn chair by tipping it with one hand and holding his beverage in the other. He shook out the dust that established itself there, reset the legs of the chair in their usual place on the floor, and carelessly plunked himself down. The metal frame and nylon straps groaned underneath his weight, his knees pointing in opposite directions as he slouched. He starred out toward the ridge-line like a man who came outside to think.

I placed my soda onto the lid of a small, green ammo container beside him, and sat down on the warm cement with my back pressed to the metal railing. Dogmeat tried to fit himself in my lap. I scratched his ears and focused on the sound of his panting.

Courage. I am courage.

_I _ _am stupid to be bringing this up without a grape mentat is what I am._

“Can we… talk?” I heard myself say.

“We’ve done a lot of that,” he said. His voice less coarse as a layer of sugary soda coated his throat.

“It’s because we've done that, and _that_, that we need to talk.” I flashed the whites of my eyes as I referenced our heated encounter in Rivet City. “If there wasn’t… _that_, I would have left our 101 talk where it was.”

The ghoul shifted in his seat and lifted his left ankle up to his right knee. A warm breeze tossed his fine, clean, red hair. “Is it heavy?” he asked.

I looked at Dogmeat as my heart pumped all of my blood down to my toes. I felt a chill. “Very.”

Charon frowned. “Can it wait until after the raid? We need to rehash our plan.”

I drew myself backward like I’d been personally attacked, forced myself to smile, and agreed.

“We leave here at 4:30am,” he said. “Exactly. While it’s still cool enough to walk. We keep a low profile as long as we can and disable slavers with hands and knives. That means no guns until they use guns.”

‘Disable’ was Charon’s polite way of saying ‘kill’.

The ghoul paused to empty his Nuka-Cola and abandon the empty bottle underneath his chair.

“From there I’ll rush to the behemoth gate and cut the power while you sneak to the slave pens. The behemoth will come out, ignore me, and hopefully distract the slavers while you unlock the doors and keep everyone calm. By then the main exit should be open and whomever was locked up should be able to make an easy break for it. In the off chance that the behemoth does decide to follow the slaves, you grab his attention and run towards the duffle bag and keep running. I’ll flip the switch when he gets to it. Questions?”

“Just one… what makes you so confident the behemoth will ignore you?”

“Ghoul’s don’t taste good.”

I brought my hand to my chin and pretended to share a serious revelation. “It must be all those preservatives,” I said.

Charon leered at me through half-lidded eyes.

_Well. I think I’m funny._

Nerves were getting the better of me and mostly won. I lifted my forearm and looked at the dim screen of my pipboy. If I fall asleep right away I could still have 5 hours and 36 minutes of solid rest.It was a fine time for my stomach organs to play hopscotch with dread.

I tried to tune out my worries by listening to all of the wonderful sounds that were home. Godfrey’s fan, Dogmeats tail swishing, the Nuka-cola machine humming with the glass bottles clinking, and the ghoul shuffling in his make-shift bed on the couch. Is everyone awake? Was it something we ate?

“Hey, big guy?” I whispered, just to make sure.

Charon grunted.

I delicately sat up and quietly slid out of my hammock until my two feet touched the cool, tiled floor. I hardly made a sound as I walked across our suite in the dark. The ghoul’s dark shadow laid on the couch with his thick blanket draped mostly over him. His feet stuck out of the blanket and were crossed at the ankles on the arm of the couch. I tried to match my breathing to his.

I stepped even closer toward Charon and stopped myself, swaying my weight between both feet until I rallied myself to keep going. What if what happened the other morning wasn’t a fluke? My heart rapidly beat behind my small rib cage as I approached him and hovered.

The ghouls left arm was tucked behind his pillow and head, and his right arm rested on his chest. It was as if he could feel me standing. He creaked both faded-blue eyes open.

In the mostly dark we starred at one another, unmoving, like a drive-thru movie reel that was missing the next scene and instead looped the last thirty seconds over and over again.

“You smell like a corpse,” Charon tiredly muttered. _Touche_.

“There’s a monster under my bed” I joked softly, referring to Dogmeat, while wringing my hands together and joining them as one large palm to cover my mouth. I wasn’t sure how to ask him for what I wanted. Would he perceive me as weak for needing a human connection? I should be harder than this.

The large ghoul raked his eyes down me, shifted to the empty hammock, and then back to me again. As if he were to say “What do you want?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Can I sleep with you? Well. Not with you. Beside you. To sleep? Just. Sleep.”

Charon closed his eyes. “You know that talk you wanted?”

“Yeah?”

“We should probably have it first.”

The contract that dangled around my neck felt heavy. I wanted to rip it from its chain and throw it over the balcony for the ferals to fight over - as if professing to him that he’s his own man could change anything.

“We probably should,” I said.

And then, unexpectedly, Charon lifted the blanket for me to join him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever read through your notes and half-written scenes and kick yourself for forgetting to use something? If you thought chapters five and six were tasty, consider revisiting them and giving yourself a second helping. You deserve it.
> 
> A kind thank-you to Cocoa for reminding me to post something - this chapter sat in purgatory long enough.


	12. Improv

****Disclaimer: ****Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

It was difficult to pretend there wasn’t an uneven power balance between us. Waking up with Charon's heart against my ear, and his arm around me, made me feel as warm as it did guilty. My knees tangled with his. I laid still as the alarm clock across the room buzzed and vibrated into action items on the shelf that neighbored it. Loose bottle caps, bobbypins, drinking glasses, and silverware all chimed their own music like many birds singing at sun rise. Delicately tracing his collar bone from one shoulder to the other, I marveled at the texture. Because of the radiation damage on his skin I expected to feel deep pocks and dry roughness, but he was surprisingly soft. Not smooth, but soft. The uneven layers of skin reminded me of a three-dimensional topographic map with its many ridges and layers. I wanted to color a landscape on him with vibrant markers, and drive a toy truck over his back and down his thighs. Of all the ghouls I’d met, Charon was one of the few who rigorously moisturized with animal fat and made quips about becoming ash-y. I lifted my head and smiled tightly as I watched him wake in the darkness.

His emotional shift after waking did not go unnoticed. The ghoul insisted on, and helped me administer, a precautionary Stimpack before we’d had breakfast. Without being perverted, Charon perched himself on his knees, helped me to pull down the waist of my khaki pants, and gently stuck my thigh with the Stimpack’s thin needle He never took his eyes away from my own as he slowly pushed the medical serum into my body, and even went so far as to rub the injection sight with the ball of his calloused thumb to lessen the sting. I gulped twice to wash down my nervousness and anxiety. He was breaking character.

We finished preparing for Evergreen Mills by syncing a detonator to the explosive dufflebag I’d packed the previous day. The detonator was a kludged together signal extender and switchboard that was crudely duct-taped to a yellow controller for a children's motorized race car. The words “Quake” were cracked from oxidation on the plastic surface.

I danced into my power armor as he seriously stepped into his own tundra-camouflaged set, and we helped one another by tightening armor straps and weapon holsters. Charon grazed his fingers against my bare neck and asked questions about the fit of my power armor and whether or not I remembered how to sprint. I wondered if he was playing-it-up on purpose.

He lifted the explosive dufflebag over my artificially wide head and shoulder, then grabbed our backpack of medical supplies and miscellaneous goodies for himself. As much as I tried to pretend I wasn’t my fathers daughter, Charon reminded me that it was likely the slaves we were freeing had not seen a doctor in a very long time. I needed to be prepared to help with more than just jail break if it came to that.

Excitement rallied us. Dog Meat ate his pre-raid meal so fiercely he was still burping when we checked out of the tower for, what we did not know to be, the last time.

Ahead of me the ghoul walked a trail that was as familiar to him as the scars on his knuckles. Not that the familiarity worried me, as Charon was a man of many jobs and employers, but the story of how he knew it so well was particularly intriguing. Who was he five years ago? Twenty years ago? Fifty? It was hard to imagine him as anyone other than who he showed me, but I knew there were dark secrets hidden under his facade that he'd never share. Secrets he'd rather not remember and secrets he couldn't. Some secrets I put there.

We stayed low on the ridge between valleys and craters, skirted widely around an inverted barn, and somehow managed to keep the rising sun off of our reflective, lead-lined armor. We were mostly invisible to even the most eagle-eyed of the slaver’s scouts. I marveled at the width of his stride and kept up by taking two steps to match his one. The power armor I wore was petite and nimble, designed to carry much of its own weight, but it was more awkward than leather and I was breathing heavily before we reached our halfway point, Jocko’s Pop and Gas Station. My hands felt clammy and uncomfortably slick against the rubber gloves I wore. I humored myself by trying to hear if Charon was as out of breath as well, but the only sounds were our choreographed footfalls and the swishing of swinging limbs, zipping to the tune of corduroy overalls. Six hand grenades swung from a thin belt around my suited hips like swollen apples poised to fall from a skinny branch. I focused on leaning forward to balance the weight of the dufflebag that heavily pulled me backward.

Dog Meat lost interest in all of the unique smells and objects he could empty his bladder onto and, mercifully, pranced figure-8’s between us. I liked it best when he stayed within the restricted vision of my helmet.

Charon raised his shotgun as we approached the mess of a gas station. There was nothing notable or exciting to mention about the fabricated junk walls and metal roof, as the entire structure appeared to be standing only by the good grace of Atom himself. The ghoul strut onto the wooden porch and hesitated at an open window, his gun nestled not-awkwardly against his bolstered shoulder while he nudged the front door open. The red-dot painted at the center of the fusion core between his shoulder blades winked impishly at me in the early morning light - the two century old battery was as reliable as it was _un_reliable. Carrying a limited number of spare fusion cores was a gamble every soldier took each time they suited up. Us included.

The canine was at Charon’s feet and together they checked the building as I leisurely sat down on an overturned oil barrel. Metal squeaked against metal when my behind made contact. My heavy breaths sounded like small, metallic whisper’s in the helmet, and were followed by a whoosh from my respirator. The possibility of being too “out of shape” for the wasteland came to question.

“It's clear,” Charon announced. He spontaneously stretched his fingers by squeezing and relaxing his fists with enough force to crush an aluminum can of creamed beets. Stifling a sleep-deprived yawn, I popped the buckles that locked my helmet to my armored torso. I lifted the blistering coffin from my head and planted it onto my lap. The dry, hot breeze was a relief on my clammy, wet skin.

Charon fumbled with our packed goods and handed me a fresh tato to snack on. He did not take one for himself, but instead drank from an oxygen-aged, yellow water bottle - his own helmet gripped tightly in his free hand. To recover from our previous outing he drank irradiated water relentlessly and peed like a pregnant woman who was two weeks overdue.

I rolled the red fruit between my hands to soften the skin and observe for any in-edible bruises or brown spots. It looked fine enough and I took a cautious bite. Where I expected juice, I was met only with thick, hollow flesh and tender seeds. The crop hybrid was more red pepper than actual tomato, but tasted pleasant all the same. Dog Meat watched me eagerly for his chance to take the last bite. As was customary I ate until only the stem and stub were left and then held it out for him. The furry beggar gingerly took the Tato stump using only his meager, front teeth. I hardly felt him take it at all. He accepted kissy-sounds for praise as he ate. Charon unevenly smiled and snorted through his two, high-perched nostrils.

“You baby that dog,” he said with wet lips. His red hair, heavy with sweat, stuck down flat around his skull.

In response Dogmeat accepted a big kiss on his fat, heart-shaped, dog nose. I stood and playfully swung my helmet back and forth to dry some of the humidity that fogged the inner computer panels.

This was it. The turn of my tide where I stopped asking, “What’s in it for me?” and instead “How can I help?”. I was taking back the Capitol and with it, taking back the person I used to be. I looked over my shoulder to watch Charon carefully place the emptied waterbottle back into the backpack without crushing it.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

Charon shrugged. “For?”

“Coming with me.”

The ghoul gripped his helmet between both of his hands and snickered through bared canines. “Damn, smoothie. You say that like I have a choice,” he said approvingly.

I beamed knowingly, then bit down on the inside of my own cheek to stop myself from saying something shameful or stupid. It was nice to see that even he could make jokes about our unique predicament.

Today was important. There was something poetic about finding a man who’s so ass-backwards and brainwashed that he thinks his only purpose is service and combat, and re-purposing him to give others back the very freedom he couldn’t take for himself. I wanted to witness his proud, smug face when it was all over.

But... more than that. I wanted to be domestic for a day. I wanted to lay too long in bed, dress up to go no where, and play cross-words while talking about picket fences. I wanted us to pretend to have nothing to care about, like those old-timey couples before shit turned so sour not even the bloatflies wanted it. I wanted to wrestle him, out drink him, and make him moan so loudly his eyes roll back. I wanted today to end so that we could start on tomorrow.

It was very fortunate that slavers ate their breakfast hot.

Smoldering pits were scattered throughout the valley as thick curls of smoke climbed the crevassed train yard. Grimy men and women, with morbid armor made of animal/human leathers and cruel spikes, swarmed the blackened coals that cooked questionable meats. They huddled for warmth as the sun burned off the last of the morning dew, and were distracted by heavy ceramic plates, savory smells, and sleepish chatter. A few from the night shift stood, alone, on the walkways throughout the base. From what we could tell the slavers who’d been awake all night were still assumed to be “on duty”. They were exhausted, and their sunken eyes and paper-white skin made them easy targets compared to the alert, tanned day crew. One such pale slaver had already wedded himself to sleep with his head careened uncomfortably backwards over the top rail of a rusted metal chair. He was in danger of his psychotic, ruthless family spotting him before us.

The ghoul held up his fist for us to stop walking. We stood in the stretched shadow of a bright-orange railroad car that sagged into its rails. The closed car was the first of many which led into the base and stopped at the behemoths tall enclosure. Sister was right. The slave’s chain-linked cages were mostly hidden so that prospective buyers had to physically enter the camp to examine the goods. We didn’t know if we’d be saving just one person or a handful, but our goal was to do enough damage that partnering slavers would feel the tremors. On the bright side. The single, narrow point of entry into the camp was an excellent spot to backpeddle, regroup, and throw grenades.

Directly ahead of us was the reason Charon had stopped walking. Along the heavy-beaten trail laid an amateur line of frag mines that stuck out like our own personal, fairground greeters.

The mines were… too obvious. I snapped my gloved fingers and pointed for Dog Meat to relocate under the nearest train car. His paws kicked loose pebbles as he dashed and expertly ducked into the tight gap. Squeezed by the belly of the train, he crawled along the tracks until his face came between the two metal wheels at the end. His dark back, white face, and brown-spotted legs masked him with the dirt as well as any stealth-boy triggering night stalker in the Mojave desert. Dog Meat panted, closed his mouth, and swiveled his ears to listen. I followed his gaze and saw him watching two slavers pass caps between themselves like somebody lost a bet.

I felt uneasy.

“They’re expecting us,” Charon said quietly. His body went stiff as he drew his shotgun. “You think it was Sister?”

“For real? Sister’s a sell out, but not stupid. Between Leroy, my betrayal with Paradise, and Three Dog’s radio coverage? Shit. I’d be concerned for humanity if someone _didn’t_ put it together,” I replied and carelessly dropped the heavy duffle bag where we stood. The main entry was a farther back Behemoth leg-exploding-check-point than I'd have liked to sprint to, but I couldn’t bring a good fight with sixty pounds swinging behind me. “You’re traveling with a wanted woman.”

The ghoul clicked his tongue. “Think we still have an advantage?”

“Nah. Let's play,” I said sweetly, “You like improv?”

“Hate it.”

I grinned to myself and took my first step onto a make-shift ramp, testing the wooden boards to see if they could hold my power armor. The boards creaked under my foot, but did not bow or splinter. I hugged my carbine to my plated chest as I walked up the ramp and awkwardly laid myself on the roof of the same train car Dog Meat was under. Sniping real-time threats was going to be harder than my hobby of irritating sun-bathing ferals. Something made the mutt whine, but he did not leave his position.

Peering down my gun’s scope I tracked Charon as he cautiously followed the train tracks on his own. It was nervous-making seeing him solo. I lifted my head to scout around him, then squinted through the scope once more to adjust my aim a few notches.

“Bonga banga bungo, I don't want to live with Mungo’s, oh no no no,” I sang quietly to myself while unabashedly butchering the pitch. A raider slowly entered my cross-hairs as he walked out onto one of the platforms above Charon. The pale man stood with his pistol pointed downward like he planned to shoot through the wooden planks holding him. Shame. Someone should tell him it’s a sneak free zone.

“Binga banga bungo, something something rhymes with mungo - I refuse to groooow.”

Remembering Charon’s advice about needing both eyes to successfully aim, I widened my gaze and fired my gun. The bullet cracked and sailed through the raiders shoulder, violently swinging his arm backward like a wind-sock at an airfield runway. He dropped his pistol and I fired again, this time hitting him in the torso. The man fell off the bridge. I sniggered as Charon jumped by the suddenness of a corpse hitting the ground in front of him, and watched as he cocked his shotgun. The ghoul stepped over the dead raider and, fully alert, looked for the first thing to gun down.

Despite my subdued muzzle, the double crash of gunfire amplified against the orange clay walls and echoed several times before it was ultimately swallowed by the expansive sky. As the sound of gunfire hit its ears, the Super Mutant Behemoth jolted up in its enclosure and grabbed onto the electricifed, chain-link fence with one hand. Lights in the base flickered as the fence surged and stole power from the generators. The Behemoth howled and let go. Was he testing the electric current? He glared in my direction with what I hoped to be a mere coincidence. His size, strength, and reflexes were better than any watch dog. _Hold on__to your __cheesy ball hairs__, mute-y. You'll get your turn.  
  
_

  
_The air in the Jefferson Memorial was as thick and cold as the river that ran through it. Thick, dewy drops of water clung to the overhead steel and brass pipes, while the cement walls and floors were painted dark gray with moisture. I closed my eyes and told myself to breathe. I clenched my molars together to ground myself and gently dragged my fingers over one of the desks surfaces, recklessly pushing water-warped beige folder’s and papers to the floor. Several pages of notes fell into a shallow puddle and water consumed the hand-written blue ink so that all remained were smudgy blurs._

_Fuck. I wasn’t ready to see his rotten, irradiated corpse inside that mineral-crusted tank, or hear his calming voice over the many holotapes spread through-out the compound, but enough time had passed for bacteria and radiation to do its thing that he would be unrecognizable. My father would be nothing more than a dry husk in a lab coat. Or so I hoped._

_Why did I care if he was dead? As far as I was concerned he killed me the day he left the vault. If anyone thought the Oveseer was mad, they should have seen my fury as I swung a hardwood bat against his inflated, ego-driven face. Instincts for self-preservation make a person do some crazy shit._

_Charon watched me with that pitiful look in his eyes, daring me to lose my nerve and abandon the water purifier indefinitely._

_“Alright, big guy,” I said while forcing myself to smile. “Let’s finish what my daddy started.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know, Shae. What did your daddy start? And why did we flashback to the Memorial instead of something fun? Why are there even flashbacks? How does Godfrey open doors to take Dog Meat for walks? How is power armor one-size fits all? How can 101 be a hero and a villain? Because plot, that’s why.


	13. Betrayl

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

Charon was a whirlwind of violence who pushed himself harder as things escalated. His powerful resolve was fortified by countering one feeble attack after the next, while somehow never breaking pace or pausing to catch his breath. Each small achievement, an attack dodged or a kill confirmed, was like repetitively taking gallons of gasoline and pouring it over an already active inferno. Destruction inspired his frenzy and held him there. The absolute protection from his power armor gave him permission to wield a fighting style I had not ever witnessed before… Cockyness.

The ghoul swiftly moved beyond my rifles supporting range as he delved deeper into the retired train yard. I tucked my gun under my elbow and waited for the path to clear. The morning was going smoother than an oily packet of cheese sauce in a box of Blamo.

Surprisingly, a slaver was able to identify and take advantage of Charon’s blind spot. With clear attempts to intimidate him, the man screamed obscenities and jumped on the ghouls back.

“Yeehaw, fucker! We got you!” the pale man shouted as he swung his tire iron down like he was riding a horse about to buck. The metal rod sharply clanged against Charons arm, hand, and waist, causing him to drop his shotgun.

“Ride him, cowboy,” cheered a second slaver. She cupped her hands to her mouth to project her voice. “We’ll roast him like a pig!”

Slavers and cannibals. One more raider quirk and we’d have ourselves a trifecta.

Like a mirelurk the ghoul pivoted, ducked his shoulder low, and threw his body weight forward to detach the malnourished slaver. The man didn’t stand a chance. His slim build was propelled over the seasoned soldier while he kept a firm grip on the tire iron. Bits of dust trailed behind the soles of his shoes, and with his legs still midair, his upper back hit the ground in front of Charon. The ghoul grabbed the mans fist that held the tire iron and helped him connect it to his own skull. With a little guidance, the man bludgeoned himself to death.

Splattered with fresh blood, Charon turned and energetically tossed the tire iron overhead in the direction of the other slaver. The l-shaped rod curved in the air like a boomerang, slammed into the back of the womans heels, and tripped her mid run. The ghoul grabbed his shotgun from the dirt and fired.

Dogmeat and I left the empty train cars and skirted widely around the perimeter of the slaver camp. The canine’s guard was nonexistent and he walked with a bounce to his step. He stopped to smell a random tumble weed and mark it with urine.

“Dog!” I quietly hissed. Dogmeat looked over his furry shoulder and lifted his ears at me, as if he expected praise and a game of fetch. Where were his nerves? Had it really been so long since our last outing that he’d forgotten how to fight?

“Flank,” I said.

The canine walked to my side, sat, and flashed a lop-sided grin. I balled both of my fists in front of my chest to quietly release my frustration. ‘Flank’ meant come to me and work to identify threats, not clown around. I counted down from five to clear my head. It was going to be difficult to do my part solo. I’ll have to sneak around and snipe the occasional jackass, find the slave pens, pick the lock(s?), babysit Dogmeat, keep tabs on the behemoth once Charon released it, send the slaves back through the safe way I came, and then tiptoe after them unseen and unscathed. Dogmeat wasn’t about to pull his weight today. The steep plateaus and many hiding places around Evergreen Mills made me think we needed the extra eyes and ears… I regretted bringing him. Perhaps he’s too old for this.

The exploding dufflebag was more like an insurance policy. We didn’t think we’d need it, but it was there just in case. Once free the behemoth should be preoccupied with squishing a bunch of pissed-off raiders, but in the off chance he wanted to follow the slaves… that’s where I would come in. I’d steal his attention, run for my dumb life to the explody dufflebag and beyond, Charon sets off the detonator… and boom! It’s raining big, ugly bits of mutant.

How’s Charon doing?

Brittle bullets scratched the ghouls titanium plating, and licked white hot sparks and led paint chips as they unpredictably ricocheted from him. One such ricocheting bullet struck the very slaver that fired it. How many black cats did Charon have to skin to be so lucky? I made a mental note to ask him later about: 1) how to find cats and 2) how to <strike>get</strike> be lucky.

Unfazed by the one-sided fire fight, Charon disturbed a frag mine by pulling it up at its root. He must have glossed over the entire chapter of “explosives and what not to do” in our copy of the Wasteland Survival Guide. The small, orange device beeped its familiar countdown and, using his best pitching arm, Charon forcefully tossed the small explosive behind an upper bank where the majority of bullets careened from. The frag mine erupted out of sight, but sent an uncouth bouquet of gravel and human flesh back towards him as positive reinforcement. He knew he would have all the time in the world in no time at all.

At least one thing was going right. The ghoul looked out over the entire train yard, concluded now was the right time, and jogged to the only running generator by the behemoths enclosure. I snickered to myself. Charon was the best thing caps could buy.

The behemoth Super Mutant grunted as the ghoul approached it. The creature squat low to sit on its haunches. I could hear it clear its nostrils as it sniffed the air and decided Charon was too irradiated to eat. The large creature must have been frustrated by the thick stench of broken flesh and wasted blood that smeared the compound. What could slavers possibly feed a creature so large anyway? Dogmeat and I reached the slave pens without bumping into a single pipe pistol. I thumbed a small bobbypin to pick the cage locks.

Behind the rusty, feeble fence three adults and one child huddled together… but they weren’t what I was expecting. They wore farmers clothes and had enough fat on their bones that they could have been rounded up anytime within the last week. And each person had all the signs of prolonged radiation poisoning. Their skin was pulled taut on their faces as features with cartilage were missing or well on the way out. These prisoners were all ghouls.

The bobbypin almost slipped from my gloved fingers as I hastily worked the weak padlock. I hooked the pins loop around an invisible, hair-thin mechanism and circled it around until it officially caught. The lock regurgitated it’s slim, metal arm so that I could twist it apart. I dropped the lock and opened the fence.

“You’re free. Go home,” I commanded with the most authoritative voice I could muster. The power armor’s helmet made me sound older and gruffer than I really was. I waved my hand in circles to emphasize my urgency.

The old fence doors hung slack on aluminum hinges and clanked as hot wind silo-ed through the vast crevasse. The ghouls thanked me, brushed their hands on my shoulders, and weakly jogged the path that had been cleared for them. I resisted the urge to pick up the child and carry him for his parents – he likely became a ghoul decades ago and was as much an adult as the rest of us.

Were ghouls the big seller now? Where were the smoothskins? Could this really be a setup? Or a worse thought… what did they feed the behemoth? The entire space was eerily quiet, except for Charon’s assault against an innocent, small, diesel engine.

The generator sputtered smoke and spray-painted black, inky soot onto the blonde ground. Charon kicked it again. The pistons inside clunked and gears skipped around rubber belts as it struggled to meet the needs of the Behemoth’s electric fence.

My eyes grew wide with realization.

The men and women Charon fought were small, hungry, and pale… they were the night-shifts most expendable. This wasn’t a poorly planned set-up for cheap revenge…. it was a choreographed execution.

“CHARON! NO!”

Blue zaps of electric current scattered irregularly between the chains in the fence, then died out altogether. The behemoth was free. My heart raced to meet my demand for adrenaline. I pushed Dogmeat down to the ground and growled at him to stay there, then took off in a dead run to the other side of the complex.

The hydraulics of my power armor whined as my feet barely touched the ground. My arms scissored at the air, as if scooping oxygen with my palms could satisfy exerted lungs. I overtook the freed ghouls with a big, hungry monster trailing behind me.

Following the train cars, I pulled two grenades without their pins from my belt and blindly dropped them behind me. They exploded somewhere, but the massive steps of the behemoth boomed closer. Don’t look back.

Running haphazardly triggered several poorly hidden frag mines, one after the other, as they responded to my clumsy underfoot vibrations. Run harder. I skirted around a wide turn and breathed out as the tiny beeps erupted on the behemoth… it wasn’t enough. His roar rattled the screws in my armor, and he was so close I could smell his rancid, hungry breath and body odor. I strained against my mortal body and forced another burst of energy towards the only saving grace, which was wrapped in fabric and bursting with explosives. My carbine clacked against my back as I leapt over the dufflebag and kept running. The behemoth had almost completely closed the gap between us.

“Push the button!” I shouted. “PUSH!”

_Our in-sync footfalls on the hollow metal stairs echoed in the expanse of the most important room in the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. The buzz of computers and the soothing swish of water behind thick glass was a confusing marriage of hope and dread. We were standing inside the first-born love between both of my parents. Project Purity._

_The vast filtration room bathed the walls, stairs, and floor in a magical, aquamarine glow while light filtered through a deep vat of stagnate water. The ripples on the surface reminded me of the zebras stripes I’d seen in old world encyclopedias. From below the heavy tank I looked up, into the water, and admired the hair-thin threads of green moss which covered Jefferson’s statue. Fresh water moss and seaweed didn't grow beyond of the reaches of the project._

_The prospect of cleaning the large, local river was a selfish monster that couldn’t be satiated. This was something I had to do. Project Purity stole the future from my mother, snuffed the life of my father, and demanded the last of their lineage so that it may be complete. It was as if I’d been born just so that I may die. Sibling rivalry had never been so complicated._

_With shaky hands I pulled the strap of my gun tight across my shoulders and moved up to the last stair step. I walked onto the main platform and zipped closed my Tunnel Snakes jacket so that I may hide from the non-existent chill which had my hair standing on end. These were the things that were the most important to me. Things that I would no longer need._

_On the wall, at about knee level, was one of the chalk drawings from when I was small. It was a portrait of my mother with a mermaid tail. She was surrounded by bright water and vibrant flowers. She may have been a drawing, but I told myself she was a drawing with the ability to love, and she loved me. I reached out and dragged my fingers over the chalk, smearing the image of her face with pinks and blues._

_My father would often pace here and talk science jargon with the other team members as I tried to make good use with my time. Many evil, imaginary, dragons were fought under the staircase and in the cramped hallways. The gift shop had been my fortress. This was our home until my fourth birthday._

_I bit my lip for so long that it swelled and my mouth was contaminated with the flavor of rusty blood. Heat filled my sinus and I gasped out, grimacing as I tried not to cry. I fisted my hair and gently pulled. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my jaw. Tears, pinched by my eyes, rolled off my cheeks as I titled my head down. I couldn’t let the promise of radiation liquidation discourage me._

_But, I was weak._

_I couldn’t go inside the final room. My body was heavier than the skeletal, metal remains of a robobrain, and I shook all over. Fucking humanity._

_Charon carefully walked around me. He moved to the heavy door, which led to the main controls, and kindly held it open. His face looked so damn empathetic._

_“Sometimes being brave means doing something, even though you know it’ll hurt,” he said quietly. The ghouls encouragement - his approval - made it all the more difficult to tuck my tail and run. It was ironic that a project meant to clean radiation would first need to drown itself in it. My life was meaningless so that the world could heal._

_I sniffled and pinched the snot off my nose. “Yeah?” I laughed weakly, “So, is being stupid.” I wiped the snot on my denim pant leg._

_And that’s when the idea came to me._

_So very much a bad idea. But an idea, none the less._

_“I’m chicken shit.” I whispered. I hugged my arms around myself so tightly the leather sleeves creaked. “And I’m not immune. You are. Push the button, Charon.”_

_The ghoul’s jaw dropped momentarily, then snapped shut again. He squinted his eyes. “No.”_

_“That’s an order.”_

_For the greater good._

_Charon scowled and spit. His ball of saliva landed on the floor and slumped between the pre-punched holes in the metal tile under my feet. It dangled thickly like an impostor among the condensed moisture that was already there. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he stepped into the room and released the door he’d held for me. The door loudly slammed into its frame. I yelped. The ghoul gripped the cuffs of his leather gloves and flexed his fingers. First his right hand, and then his left. He stepped up to the control panel and observed the many computer buttons, levers, and process meters._

_He looked at me through the thick, glass window, and pushed the intercom button. With his voice distorted through the speaker nearest to me, he asked, “What do I push?”_

The explosion was an intense assault of forced air, falling debris, and noise. So much noise. It attacked the inside of my skull and violently escaped through my ear drums. My ears could bleed. Thinking with only instinct, I clawed at the clasps of my helmet, yanked the metal case from my head, and threw it down. I couldn’t breathe gulps of air big enough. My lungs were weak paper bags that ripped beyond their capacity. I sat down on the ground and frivolously pushed my palms to my sweaty forehead. Someone needed to turn off the ringing radio near-by, because it was driving me feral. My head pounded. I squeezed my eyes shut to try and make the white stars go away. In between blinks of light I could see Dogmeat. He pawed my armored elbow and licked my oily face. I looped my arm around his neck and pulled him to me. Then I could see down the hollow barrel of Charon’s shotgun. I looked passed the dented magazine and loading chamber, and stared at the hands that held it there.

“Did we get him?” I croaked, dazed. Although the answer was very clear by the dismembered, fat green arm laying in front of me.

“You… Killed. Me.” The ghoul forced between grit teeth. I could hardly hear his tone behind the ringing of the explosion, but the hate was there. It was slimy and thick, and choking his throat as he forced the words out.

What was he talking about?

“What are you talking about?” I glanced beyond Dogmeat and back into the train yard. The behemoth was… mostly there. Slightly everywhere. His disembodied torso laid, bloodied, on top of a train car. We actually did it.

I grinned.

“At the damn memorial!” Charon hissed. “Project Purity.”

Oh. That.

My insides sunk. I was fairly sure I was about to vomit. My arms were too weak to hold Dogmeat, and they fell limp to my sides. My knuckles dug small graves as they dragged against the dirt. I bowed my head. Defeated. This was that talk we needed to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm. Whoops?


	14. Division

**Disclaimer: **Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

_As the purifier's engine warmed and purred into life, it pushed out an exuberant white light that swallowed the the airlock chamber and everything outside of it. The ghoul kept his hands on the computer panel, but squat low as he bowed his head between his shoulders and arched his back. He pressed his teeth together and squint his eyes and brows so tightly that the skin on the bridge of his nose folded. I staggered backward until my head and heels hit the cold, wet wall behind me. Hissing at the unreal intensity of the light, I shielded my eyes with my forearms. The geiger counter of my pipboy began to talk, warning me once every minute and quickly transitioning to click every few seconds. Oily tears blinded me, my skin tingled, and ear drums swelled. My saliva glands were dedicated to producing so much drool, it was as if my body was trying to drown the awful, sour, metallic flavor that accompanied radiation. I gagged and swallowed to clear my mouth. Then the coughing began. I couldn't draw in enough air before another fit had me doubled over. It felt as though the radiation had cinched itself around my lips and sucked the fresh, un-radiated air directly from my lungs. I dropped to my knees and blindly felt for my backpack. The airlock was failing and I felt my body dying. My heart thrummed with terror. Rad-X. I need Rad-X._

_Clumsily I unzipped the front pocket of my pack, found the Rad-X, and fought the child-proof lid. The plastic lid released and the new bottle burped a customary “pop” as I ripped away the protective tin seal. The tips of my fingers stung as the nerves lost their ability to function. I dropped the bottle._

_Wheezing on my hands and knees, I pawed the floor for the bottle and lifted it to my wet mouth. Holding my breath long enough to swallow was a struggle, but somehow I managed to get three large pills down with help from the extra saliva. The sting of the medicine as it dissolved in my empty stomach was minor compared to the radiations initial assault, and as the Rad-X buffered the effects of the poison my head cleared so that I could hear him._

_Charon's painful howls echoed against the chamber walls as the radiation shredded the elementary makeup of his skin, flesh, fat, blood, and bones. Ghouls were supposed to be immune. Weren't they? If the radiation attacked me so fiercely outside of the airlock, what could it possibly be doing to him while he was locked inside? Could he become feral? What if starting the purifier was the last thing he ever did? I choked on my own gasp. If anyone else died for Project Purity, it should be me. Why was I such a coward?_

_“Charon!” I yelled, but my voice was modest against the world-crumbling volume of his anguish. I creaked my eyes open and recoiled from the light. I felt for the airlock's podium, walked my hands up to the top panel, and with unbalanced feet forced myself to stand. My open fist slammed against the door's emergency release button as if I expected it to do something. It didn't. The machines safety measures kept the room locked tight until it burned away every last living cell of contamination. The design was good in principle. For unquestionably clean water it was vital that all bacteria and small organisms be cleansed from the operating room, vat, and tubes before the filtration process could begin... but unfortunately it also meant frying whomever was inside like a microwave cooks a Salisbury Steak TV diner. I whacked the button again, but the door was fixed closed._

_“Fuck!”_

_Against my better judgment I grabbed my rifle and violently assaulted the door with the butt of my gun. Plastic and metal collided with glass, but the glossy airlock window was unblemished. My arms vibrated as the energy of my blows was redistributed back through my gun, into my hands, my wrists, and up to my elbows. I tossed the useless gun aside and succumbed to frustration. I screamed and cursed. I lost count of the amount of times I hit the door with my bare hands, how bloodied my knuckles had become, and broken my nails were from trying to force the latch._

_Project Purity was unbiased about the life it needed to take so that it may live. Charon yelled until his voice gave out._

_What have I done?_

The sound of the warm breeze returned to me as the white spots in my vision waned. I scooped a rubber-gloved hand into the dirt and lifted a handful of dry, cakey soil. Dirt and rocks drifted between my fingers and fell back onto the ground near my knees. Cooking under the hot sun, the stink of sulfur and blood from the Super Mutants explosive end wafted around us.

There was no one left in the slaver compound to fight. I should have seen it sooner. The pale, weak raiders and the poor defense measures. In my heart I apologized to Dog Meat for being so firm with him.

“Do you want to hit me?” I asked with a small voice. Didn't that become our way after Project Purity? To test the limits of the contract? We'd halfheartedly invoke a physical altercation, share some choice words and insults, and then talk things out so that we could be good again.

“No…” Charon sneered as he shook his head to one side, “What I should do is kill you.”

I nodded gravely. It was supposed to be me who died that day, and I'd been flirting with my expiration date ever since. My death was like a hound tracking a hare, digging out the nest, and eventually tearing until there was nothing left but fine fur and half-chewed meat. I earned this death... and justice had never been more beautiful. Many times I wondered what Three Dog would say for my radio obituary. Hopefully over the last few months I'd done enough to save myself from the Capitol's scorn.

“Is that what you’re supposed to do? Like with Azruhkal?” I said, hinting to Charon's drunken confessions and fantasies of killing his former employer.

He didn't say anything. I dared to look up and meet his gaze, but the bulky helmet to his power armor protected me from the disgust that must have been plastered all over his face.

No closure. Fair enough. _I deserve this._

I took a deep breath and raised myself to stand, taking the time to dust dirt from my shins and pat my armor. After all I'd done, it was the least I could do to be a willing target. There was nothing left for me but to watch it all play out. I faintly smiled for myself.

“What are the terms to the contract?” I asked as I held my chin up.

Charon straightened his back and lowered his shotgun. His grip loosened as his head tilted sideways. “Shae... Don’t do this.”

“What are the terms?” I pressed.

“You’ve broken the terms,” the ghoul hissed.

Why was he drawing it out? Lucky Azruhkal just had to stand there and look pretty. I wanted to hear the clap of Charon's shotgun one final time. “I did. So, kill me.” I encouraged.

Charon said nothing and my patience thinned. There was no exonerating myself. He shouldn't care for explanations to his own recovery. How his heart restarted on its own long after I'd given up. How Pinkerton surveyed him weekly. How much of my own blood coursed through his veins over months of blood transfusions and Rad-Away... him forgetting made things easier for us. He was able to function without the trauma of his own death and I was able to pretend I hadn't ordered him to commit suicide. It was a win-win as long as I was able to look him in the eye and bluff. I was disgusted with myself.

Anxiety goaded action. I needed him to get so angry he would just kill me and get it over with. I was scared of any future that included me and the type of person I could become if allowed to live and hold his contract. What was holding him back? I pulled my hands back, stepped forward, and tried to shove him. The ghoul moved in-step with me and deflected. Dog Meat whined.

“Stop it, Charon. Kill me, already.”

I dug my heels in behind me as I planted my hands against his plated chest and pushed with what little strength I had left. _An assault invalidates the contract. It has to._

Charon let me hurt him. He stumbled backward, but did nothing. I slapped my palm across his helmet. The force stung my hand and whipped his head to the side so forcefully his shoulders followed, but still he did nothing. I grabbed for the nose of his gun. “Kill me!”

The ghoul moved hastily to keep his gun just out of my reach, and with his free hand grasped my wrist as I leaned into him. He pulled me towards him with such fervor that my metal elbow collided into his ribs and I had to stand on my tip-toes to keep from falling over.

“I’m at odds!” he shouted into my face, the intensity of his voice crackled through the dome of his helmet. He held me close for a few moments longer before his shoulders slumped and his fingers relaxed. His grip on the shotgun loosened so much that the stock of it could fall out of his hand if he sneezed. Internal defeat won him.

My eyes widened and I froze from a blow stronger than any physical consequence he could have delivered. So much time had been spent trying to relinquish control, that some how I took what little choice he had left for himself. I stopped flirting with the afterlife and instead, looked on to him with pity and remorse. My bottom lip curled downward. The power balance had to be fixed. If he wasn't going to take action, then I would.

“Charon.... I'm – I'm no longer in need of your service,” I said quickly, before I had a chance to change my mind.

As if I'd burst into flames the ghoul released my wrist and stepped back from me. I was thankful I could not see his face. “Very well. I'll meet you at the tower.”

Seeing him again, at home, would be too soon. I looked between him and Dog Meat, and found inspiration. I waved to the small group we'd saved only moments before. They must have been hiding once they heard the dufflebag detonate, and were only now just taking their chances to sneak out of the base.

“Please escort them to Underworld and help them get settled. You can stay there. Safely. Then... we should both find work independent of each other.”

The ghoul grunted disapproval. "No. I'm not going to that cesspool where everyone cowers if I so much as shit in the public bathrooms. What sort of 'independent work' do you think is available there? Bar tending?”

"You don't have a lot of options, and nobody there will dare try to kill you in your sleep. This needs to happen. I have to figure some things out at home. Alone."

I couldn't, in good conscience, keep him with me, nor could I sell him. For months I'd tried so hard to distance him, and a few days of traveling together sealed what I feared more than my own death... owning more of him than just the contract. Every choice I made about him was a sub-conscience manipulation that led to my own self-preservation. I knew how he felt, but neither of us were brave enough to say or do anything differently then play the role we’d been playing all along. “Hopefully after enough time passes you'll find it in your heart to do what you were supposed to do today.”

“You're going to get yourself killed,” he growled.

“By you. You'll be what kills me. I'll make an effort to not die before that.”

“I'm not killing you.”

“You are.”

I reached to my neck and searched under the collar of my armor for his ring. Tugging the necklace into the open air, the meager string that held it together was broken with one strong tug. Before he had a chance to protest, I stole his hand, forced open his fingers, and tucked his own contract into his palm.

“Is there a term you haven't broken?” Charon snorted.

I laughed to cover my disbelief.

“Take care of yourself, big guy. And when it all becomes too much and you can't bare it... well... you know where I live.” _That's it, take charge._

Charon sighed as he stuffed the ring into a side pouch attached to his hip. He then jostled my backpack off his shoulders and handed it to me.

“You're...” he paused, thinking critically about his next words very carefully, “an idiot.”

I smirked faintly and looked on at him with affection. “I know.”

We should have never allowed one another to get so close.

The next few moments played out as instantly as they were decided. The large bodyguard approached the group of ghouls, pointed his thumb to me, pointed his finger in the direction of the city, then gestured for them to follow him. Wistfully, I watched him leave. Dog Meat walked several feet ahead of me with every intent to follow him, but stopped to look over his shoulder as if to ask me why we weren't going too.

“I know. I know. Don't look at me like that,” I grumbled and angrily grabbed my power helmet. I forced it onto my head, took hold of my backpack, and restrained myself by walking in the opposite direction.

Returning home was simple. There was a different ghoul than the usual at the check-in counter. She tried to make small talk by expressing how pleased she was that I returned before nightfall, and thanked me for sharing the spiced wine. I kept my answers short, pat my leg for Dog Meat to follow, and trudged to the elevator.

Standing in the doorway to our suite filled me with a sense of hollowness and unease. Too much clutter and personal style talked to how it was no longer my home exclusively. Someone else lived here. Godfrey was still deactivated and, as a consequence, the machine did not have the opportunity to sanitize the suite with washo detergent. Everything smelled like _him_. I scoffed at my weakness, but would not give in to self pity. I'd been doing too much of that... but I also couldn't do nothing. Mulling about the suite with my power armor still on, I poured out the contents of my backpack directly onto Charon's sofa. Stimpacks, food, extra ammo, and other items from our checkoff list crashed into the couch cushions and floor. I flapped the empty pack with a sharp crack, grabbed Charon's blanket, and stuffed it inside of the open pack. There were too many things that belonged to him. I grabbed everything that was too jarring and obvious, along with the doll of Abraham Lincoln (which served as a painful memory of our misdeeds in the museum), and stuffed the pack beyond capacity. The presidents felt top-hat was punched down flat so that I could cinch the pack's zipper.

Charon's Psycho-Jet sat on the counter. I debated throwing that out too, but it promised an escape from sleeplessness and invasive thoughts. Not that I was one to abuse drugs, but today was an exception. I tucked the heavy drug into a side pocket and completed a final sweep of the suite.

Finally, grabbing two sticks of jerky from the top shelf, I threw them to Dog Meat to satisfy his belly until we could settle for a proper meal. Without wasting anymore time I walked directly for the exterior door, because the backpack insisted on flapping its straps like bird wings and soaring to the courtyard below. _Just like the mattress_

As my hand touched the doorknob there was a muffled boom from one of the floors below. A fuse or battery must have blown. Then the floor beneath me vibrated. Was it an earthquake? I reached for my workbench to steady myself and debated the safest place to stand while the building shook. Should Dog Meat and I get under under a table? Or were we supposed to fit in a door frame? Then, the lights went out. I blinked in the darkness and listened through the walls for my neighbor's reactions so that I could gauge an appropriate reaction. Two ghouls were in the hallway discussing the red emergency lights when an excruciating buzz from the fire alarm cut through the silence. My ears were still too sensitive from the Super Mutant blast and the alarm was too loud.

I opened the exterior door for the porch to escape the noise. The canine lowered his ears to his head and walked so closely beside me that his head bumped the back of knees. I swung the backpack side-to-side like a pendulum and then vaulted it over the balcony rail. It was fine. Charon's blanket padded the pack and all the contents inside. Nothing could be broken or damaged. And when I was ready to deal with my reality the pack would be there on the ground, among the feral ghouls, waiting for me. I really had a good habit of sabotaging myself.

There was a second boom that was louder than the first. Again the tower shook. I gripped the rail and worriedly looked to Dog Meat. What the hell was going on?

A glimmer of smoke snaked it's way up the walls of the building and dispersed into the early night sky. I walked to the east side of the porch and peered down. The ferals were too far away to hear their rage, but they rushed the two new gaps that connected Tenpenny Tower to the courtyard, and the courtyard to the outside world. A small army of automatic guns sprayed the ground, the tower, and the ferals that approached them. I scrunched my nose and felt fury swell in the pit of my stomach. Even as high up as I was, I could still hear the raider in charge yell the objective for the full-on assault.

“Round 'em up!” he shouted as he swung his arm above his head like he was holding a lasso.

Despite my physical and mental exhaustion from the day, life sprung back into my muscles and pounded my heart against lungs and ribs. They dared to assault my home, steal my neighbors, and turn them for a profit? A growl slipped from my throat like I, myself, was turning feral.

The grenade belt around my hips had the easiest clasp to unbuckle. I pulled the remaining grenade pins, tossed the active belt over the balcony edge, and counted the seconds it took to reach the slavers below. There was no time like the present.

The boom of the belt's detonation was nothing compared to the bravado of the two fat-man explosions, but none-the-less I felt satisfied with the peculiar introduction. My rifle transitioned easily from my back to my hands, and I looked for the owner of the missile launcher who was camouflaged among the other raiders. If we were to have a fighting chance, someone needed to stop them from punching more holes into our home.

Looking for my target calmed my nerves. The butt of the gun nested, familiar, into my padded shoulder, and the crudely scrawled message on the rifles barrel reminded me to smile. And so I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previous chapters were renamed so that they better represented the content inside them. Food titles were fun until the story transitioned from an extended one-shot to a full-blown novel. Oops.
> 
> For those of you worried – this isn't the last we've seen of Charon. Sure, things are bad, but they'll smooth themselves out later. We're only halfway and there's plenty of story left to salvage the friendship.


	15. Commitment

**Disclaimer: **Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

I didn't think about what had to be done next. My body was a machine on auto-pilot ready to see things through. The seemingly bottomless stairwell was mostly empty when Dogmeat and I began our descent, but steadily as more smoke filtered up, more ghouls joined us to flee downward. The stairwell was a vertical void made for amplifying even the smallest of sounds. The ear-piercing fire alarm was isolated to the hallways, but echoed in the long chamber. Spaced between each landing was a pair of bright spot lights with bulbs the size of ceramic teacups. Slippered feet, heavy soles, and posh heels orchestrated a strange song that may have been marketable had someone the forethought to bring a recorder.

As misplaced, chipped fragments of concrete were stepped on and kicked in every which way, the ancient stairs crunched and splintered under the burden of increased traffic. The underside of the rails were still the last color they'd been painted, blue, but were so heavily stressed on top that the many layers of paint had been worn down to the smooth metal surface. The layers of color could be counted like rings on a tree. Radiation burned hands slid along the rails and shined them bright and clean with natural oil. Everyone stayed behind me, the big-armored-walking-thing-with-a-gun, like I was their temporary insurance policy. I counted the floor numbers as we passed them.

12.

11.

10.

Dogmeat reached the next platform and stopped to listen. He held his head high, swiveled his ears, and stared at an otherwise blank door that divided the stairwell and hallway. I followed his line of sight and pressed my back to the cinder block wall to stay out of the way. My armor was wide and forced the others to skirt around me one at a time. A few ghouls carried small carpet bags with irreplaceable belongings, and exchanged worried looks among themselves as they pressed on without me. A senior pre-war ghoul shuffled slowly with a silver picture frame pressed against his chest.

I gave them a thumbs-up. The hollow gesture was as much a means to give them confidence, as it was an assertion that we were in this together. The last thing they needed was an “it's all going to be okay” from some dumbass who sent away the best marksman the tower had.

The fur on Dogmeat's spine laid flat as he slunk toward the exit with his head low. He listened intently with large eyes, but did not seem distressed. I dislodged the rifles magazine, saw that it was three-quarters of the way empty, and slammed it back into place. Each bullet had to count. There were no spares.

“Easy,” I whispered. The canine's whine transformed into a hum as he fought to contain the tense energy that rippled through his body. He was like a compressed spring ready to release.

I opened the door and Dogmeat dashed through. With his claws muffled by the carpet and the blaring alarm, he sprinted down the long hall and stopped in an open doorway to sniff the entrance. I would have ran after him had I'd been more brazen, but instead found myself practicing maneuver's from Charon's defensive playbook. I was deaf from the siren and blind from the power cut. The flashlight of my Power Armors helmet illuminated a small patch ahead of me, and I found myself swiveling my head back and forth like a bobblehead to take in as many small details as possible. With my rifle pointed ahead of me I slowly followed the teal patterned wallpaper and caught up to the canine.

The door he stopped at adorned big bronze numbers that read “103” at eye-level. There was no indication of a break in. Dogmeat grinned. _Thank fuck for that._

I relaxed my carbine, but did not slacken my guard. People who embraced safety too soon were often the first to die. I joined the mutt in the narrow entry way and wiped my feet on the welcome mat. It felt taboo entering a space that was still occupied by someone living. Despite the inferno that blazed below, respecting the customs of the host somehow seemed more important.

Fat candles were strategically placed through-out the room and bathed the walls with a warm, dim light. The shelves were freshly dusted. Random nick-knacks, and faded ribbons and trophies that celebrated “first place” and “runner up” sat alongside faded photos of a woman riding horseback.

I stopped in front of a sturdy kitchen hutch and marveled at the contents locked behind its delicate glass doors. Displayed inside was a collection of linen-stuffed heads wearing vibrant wigs of various styles and lengths. Among the fake hair was one with long black curls.

This was a waste of time. The room was empty.

_Wait. Where's Dog?_

Somewhere, behind the loud screech of the siren, I could hear the jazzy melody of an old record. I made my way through the small living/kitchen area and entered the only bedroom. Apartments below the tenth floor were significantly different than the suite I'd become accustomed to.

In front of me a ghoul sat on her well-made bed and starred out the closed window. My flashlight pointed to her back. She wore a yellow Sunday dress and bright white pearls, but no wig. Her blonde hair was as sparse and thin as as the dead grass that perked up between asphalt cracks. To stop the music I lifted the record needle and gently sat it aside.

“Buttercup?” I asked.

She didn't respond. Her eyes had a sort of vacancy about them as the fire outside blazed strongly enough to cast an orange glow on her ceiling. Dogmeat sat in front of her with his head quirked to the side, but she made no motion to pet him. How did he know to come here? How many trips had Charon made to her apartment with Dogmeat while I adventured solo? Did Charon spend nights in her bed? I felt conflicted.

“You need to leave,” I said with authority behind my voice. “It's not safe.”

“There are men with guns outside,” she said. Her voice was just as subdued as it had been when we met at the bar, but the bitterness she promoted that night had since been replaced with indifference.

“Yeah. There are. But they're coming inside if they haven't already. Listen. You can risk the stairs and maybe get shot or captured, or stay safely in your apartment and wait for the fire to burn everything out from under you. I don't know about you, but playing my odds against a few asshats is a whole lot more satisfying than burning until I'm unrecognizable.”

There was a special sort of irony to lecturing a ghoul about her appearance, but the difference between ghoulifcation and a blazing building is that nobody gets super powers from burning alive.

She turned her face to me and squeezed together her dark, penciled-in eyebrows.

“I never liked dogs. But something about seeing this one always made me happy - for a moment I thought... He's not coming, is he?” she asked.

Had she been waiting for Charon to claim her so they could flee together?

“Umm... no. He's not,” I said. It was difficult to read the conversation with the alarm ringing as loudly as it was. There was no way to soften my voice to show sympathy to the heartache she felt.

Saying it out loud made it all the more real for me. He was not coming back tonight. He had no reason to. I needed to figure out my own path forward and worry only about living beyond tonight.

Buttercup looked down at the delicate handkerchief she fidgeted with between her hands. “He never wanted to talk about you, you know. I think he distracted himself with me because he couldn't have you... I kept warning him that the next time we met he'd be in a grave pushing daisies. But all he ever had was admiration.”

I gaped, stunned.

“You should go,” she said.

“You're not leaving?”

“No.”

I never should let Dogmeat lead us out of the stairwell, because in that moment I had an odd sense of survivors guilt. I took a long, exaggerated breath as I walked to her window and starred down into the courtyard. The smoke thickened and the ground was peppered with the dead feral watchdogs. The raiders had become sparse, which meant they'd found safe entry into the tower and were assuming control.

_Do I force her to come? Or let her stay? _I quietly grumbled for no ones ears but my own, just like he did whenever he had something to say and no time to say it.

9.

There was shouting in the stairwell. I leaned over the rail and searched the empty space that divided each floor while Dogmeat poked his head through the bars. Between platforms a blackened, dirty arm with a golf club swung beyond the rail and circled back in as it came down. The muffled thud against flesh as the weapon collided was unmistakable. There was no telling if it was just the one slaver or an entire army, but we ran all the same.

8\. 7. 6.

5.

They heard us coming, but there wasn't much that could be done about it if we wanted to make good time. Three ghouls had been captured and led by rope lassos which bound their wrists to their necks. Two slavers huddled together to tie flimsy knots into more rope leashes, while another two guarded their bounty. Lastly, Mr. Golfclub stood by the door and barked nonsensical orders. His face and arms were glossy with sweat and black ash. He pointed his weapon at me like he was making a promise. I couldn't wait.

Dogmeat made his grand entry by whizzing past me, leaping from the top platform of the 5th floor, clearing a flight of stairs, and landing on the back of a woman who'd wrapped garden hose around her arms and legs. An old tire had been inverted and wrapped so tightly around her torso it may have been a corset. As the slaver collapsed from the burden of an airborne 65 pound canine, Dogmeat clamped his muzzle to the unprotected junction between her shoulder and neck. The two hit the ground together with a measurable thud, but the impact was not enough to dislodge the dog.

Eager to join the fray, I lifted my rifle to my hip and fired. My aim was laughable and all I'd managed was to clip the ear of a man less than twenty paces away from me. He howled and clamped his hand to the side of his head. Charon's voice reminded me to preserve my bullets.

“Woooo! We got ourselves a lively one,” praised Golfclub. “Double the pay for anyone who catches her.”

Slavers had an odd skill for guessing the gender of the person in power armor. Was it my walk? Could the carbine be too feminine? Or perhaps they measured my small shoe size as I stomped them into the ground?

The woman under Dogmeat yelled for help while her partner manhandled one of the hostages to get out of his way. He pushed her into the rail and nearly knocked her over the edge just so that he could aim his gun at the “god damn dog”. My heart athletically stuttered as I misjudged my turn from stairs to platform. I almost fell, but righted my footing with enough momentum to push into the man instead. His gun fired as his body bounced off my armor and into the wall. The bullet made a sharp “ting” sound as it ricocheted off of me.

Unapologetically grabbing one side of his head with both of my hands, I knocked his forehead against the solid wall. A round blot of red marked where his nose collided, and as his skull rebounded I used my full body to knock him back into the same bloody bullseye. Charon used to criticize me whenever he felt I wasn't “committed enough” to including my torso and legs. “_Fighting's a dance that needs the whole body's involvement. If you're not committed to their death, you may as well commit yourself to yours_.” I slammed the mans head until his legs went limp and his body buckled. He dropped his pistol near my feet.

There was no time to pause.

_How's this for commitment?_

Golfclub backed up and let the other raiders decide among themselves who was going to face me next. A short, plump man with graying hair swung an aluminum baseball bat in front of him like a farmer harvesting grain. I raised my forearm and blocked his first blow. The power armor was cumbersome and made it a challenge to catch the barrel of the bat, the metal slipping beyond my fingers as I tried to clamp down on it. A painful vibration penetrated through my jaw when his second attack found my helmet.

The ghoul who'd been shoved into the rail tested her rope bindings. She looked at her pinned wrists, wriggled against the rope, peered down the stairwell's gap, then looked at my assailant. She ran at him and wrapped her short rope around his fat throat.

Immediately the man's head lurched back as he blindly whipped his bat behind him. Specks of saliva sprayed past his bushy mustache as his face reddened with rage. She pulled her head back as far as her rope would allow and yelped as the bat smacked against her arms.

I grabbed the slavers wrist and snapped his fingers backwards until he released the bat. The hollow metal clanged as it landed on the cement floor, rolled under the rail, and fell four floors down. The woman leaned her long back against the rail too, pushed her feet off the floor, and tried to use energy from their scuffle to send them both over the edge.

_No._

Despite my exhaustion, I moved faster than I thought capable. My arm hooked around her waist as I pulled her back to the safety of the stairwell, all the while kicking my leg up to keep the slaver off balance. She was tangled.

“Let him go!” I shouted.

It felt weird telling the hostage to release the assailant, but there was no way we could get him aerial if she was attached. She tried to take her wrists back, but the rope was pinned by his chin, dug deeply into his neck, and hooked under his ears. The man braced his hands against the rail and pushed away from it, sneering as thick snot dribbled down his nose. He looked like a freshly popped zit.

With a quick whistle, I called for Dogmeat to refocus his attention. He released the womans shoulder, crouched low over her body, and jolted forward. In a flash he pierced his sharp molars into the fat mans ankle and violently shook his head like he could snuff life from it. Reaching for my thigh I unholstered my combat knife, and with two quick cuts to his neck I successfully freed her from her the rope and her entanglement. With my elbow I pushed her behind me as the man leaked dark blood. He watched us with disbelief, but did not try to apply pressure to his wounds. The backs of her heels collided with the first man I killed, and she yelped.

Black smoke found the stairwell and began rising between the floors. There wasn't much time. With my knife still in one hand, I bent down and grabbed the abandoned pistol, and shot the fat man Dogmeat had been latched to. The bullet hit him in the collarbone. I then quickly shot the woman who was trying to get up after being pinned. The bullet cracked above her eyebrow and sent her head thudding into the floor.

The husky-mix circled around me and kept his amber eyes on the remaining two slavers as they backed away from him and the other ghouls. He panted so widely that his back molars were bared, and red strings of the slavers blood were streaked on his tongue and in his saliva. The white fur around his muzzle and throat were stained pink.

The large, bleeding raider was still standing by sheer-will and shock alone.

Bending my shoulder down, I swept my arm under the his knees and used the powerful springs in my armor to heave him up over the rail. The pink tile four floors below interrupted his fall, and a painful thud echoed up the stairwell.

The exit door one floor above us sprang open and I instinctively aimed the pistol at the source of the noise. A ghoul with a pair of cowboy boots and an automatic rifle joined us on the stairwell, looking more confused than a synth finding out it's immune to radiation.

He pressed his cracked lips together as he surveyed the 4 th  floor stairwell platform and the freshly painted murals that decorated it. He looked down the stairwell's gap and saw the slaver spread out on the tile. His reddened eyes squinted, he pointed his gun, and fired four bullets in quick succession. It was a wonder how he missed both of the hostages. The slaver who's ear was just clotting laid on the floor, gurgling his own blood like it was mouth wash. Golfclub was no where to be seen.

Adrenaline soured my stomach as the temperature around my face felt as though it dropped to below freezing. _Take it easy. No use fainting over a hungry belly and low sugar._

“Hey, Sour-face! A hand?” I shouted as I waved him toward us. The two meeker hostages stood in the corner with their palms pressed close to their chests to not agitate the rope around their wrists and necks.

Dogmeat swept the floor with his tail as he looked for praise and a hand to pet him.

What was taking Sour-face so long?

“Mich!” I yelled. He walked down the stairs like his legs were made of rubber.

“Whaaa-T?”

“Do you've a knife?” I asked.

“A knife? For what?”

_For fucks sake._

Mich pressed his hand into his plaid coat pocket and pulled out a precarious arrangement of keys and miscellaneous key chains, including an adorable, glow-in-the-dark Quantum Nukacola charm. He searched between the keys, found what he was looking for, and immediately his face lit up. In his grasp was the worlds smallest utility knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went back to previous chapters and cleaned up the style. Flashbacks are italicized and those awful line breaks are gone.
> 
> So much foreshadowing to keep track of. This was hands down the hardest chapter to figure out; specifically the fight scene, pacing, and deciding where this chapter ended and the next began. Thanks for sticking with the story and my slow write/upload pace. You all deserve a trophy.


	16. Everything

**Disclaimer: **Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

The problem with raiders, slavers, the enclave, brotherhood, children of atom, and any lot that rely on a strict hierarchy with many dipshits at the bottom and one big dipshit at the top is that there will always be an unending supply of little dipshits until the dipshit boss is dealt with. And that's the deck of cards I left myself when I decided to double-cross Paradise Falls and rescue the same slaves I'd already cashed out on. Killing the Behemoth in Evergreen Mills likely wasn't helping my case either. But could all the awful things happening tonight be classified as them pursuing a personal vendetta against me?

Not necessarily –

They want ghouls and Tenpenny Tower is famously known for having an abundance of them. But it's also where I live.

So yeah.

Things were getting a little too personal for my liking.

Always the impatient one, Dogmeat pushed his head against my metal thigh and begged to be noticed. One of his ears flopped backwards and showed off the inner, smelly workings of his ear canal.

“Shhh. Wait,” I said quietly and scratched under his chin. I corrected his ear upright so that he could appear “qualified and dangerous”. As if tickled, the canine rapidly pulled away from me and jerked his head side-to-side to flop his ears around his square head.

I clicked my tongue as I eyed the multi-tool in Mich's hands. He announced each tool as he withdrew them from the red case - nail file, can opener, cork screw, pair of scissors, and miniature blade. He displayed them as though he anticipated applause and an award for his brilliance. This was one of the men who guarded the towers security. Joy.

“Here. Take my knife. Cut them free,” I told Mich dryly as I offered my most reliable weapon. “I've got a date with Golfclub.”

The knife was significantly smaller than Charon's and lacked the sawing teeth that made his so brutal. It felt strange to freely give away something so valuable. Mich hesitantly took it from my open hand and grimaced at the drying blood that crusted around the hilt.

“I'm not about to take no ladies knife,” he said.

“You can return it later.”

“No, no. We best do this proper. I'll trade you.”

I don't have time for this.

“Fine,” I grimaced. “A trade.”

Mich nodded, mustered all of his concentration, and meticulously laid each tool back into the smooth red case of his multi-tool. He unhooked it from his main key ring and handed it to me with the Quantum Nukacola charm still dangling from it.

Perhaps I should feel guilty about leaving the three unarmed hostages with an idiot for protection. With the same hand that held my knife, the security guard poked his pinky finger into his ear canal, swirled his hand, pulled his finger out, and then carefully inspected the orange bits that'd been trapped under his fingernail. Mich inspected at the earwax and fluff, then flicked it away with his thumb.

The hostages looked between us with despair and confusion. At any moment a group of raiders could enter the stairwell and easily take the ghouls while they were still wrapped in ropes. I'd cut them loose myself, but the pocket knife wasn't up to the task and I needed to get moving.

I squinted my eyes at Mich and scrunched my nose.

“How high are you?” I asked as I tucked his multi-tool into the side pouch along with the Psycho-jet and stimpack.

The southern ghoul grinned. “A little. Gone got myself stabbed in the ass - took some Med-X. Hardly feel a damn thang.”

That explained the rubber legs. He was higher than helium in a roofless house.

“Can we go? I don't want to be here when that devil Jones comes back,” said one of the ghouls, his voice having a slight hiss as he spoke between the many gaps of his teeth. A dark, oval-shaped blood blister formed on his bicep underneath his leathery skin where the golf club had struck him.

“Jones?” I echoed.

Did he mean Eulogy Jones? Jones was as smart as he was sadistic, and ruled his slice of hell with fear and unpredictability. He'd once forced me to wait for a payment at an unguarded gate so that he may behead an underling with a dull machete. I wasn't sure all of the details, but rumor was that someone tracked mud onto his favorite furry-crocodile carpet. When he finally agreed to see me he spent the entire business transaction blotting blood from the carpet's fibers with Abraxo cleaner and Vim Quartz. Making a profit by owning and selling slaves was likely the only thing that kept Jones from killing every meatbag with a pulse, myself included. How hadn't I recognized him earlier?

I grimaced as I imagined all the things Jones would do to me if he caught me, and offered the raiders pistol to the ghoul who had risked her life by fighting. I couldn't leave the others empty handed if Jones was running the raid, and Dogmeat and I could make it with just our wits, armor, and my carbine.

“That's what they called the man giving orders – Jones,” said the female ghoul. She almost seemed to lean away from the gun as if she expected it to misfire. “No thanks. I don't shoot.”

I frowned. “Nobody shoots. We just get really good at waving the barrel and making people piss themselves.”

She gave me the side eye, but must have had second thoughts as she took the pistol from me and clenched it between both of her hands. Crude humor wasn't for everyone.

“Where’s Charon? We could really use him,” Mich said as he carefully cut through the ropes that bound the two remaining hostages. Their skin was red and raw anywhere the ropes had touched. As the last bit of thick twine fell away, Mich thoughtlessly sheathed my knife through his belt like he was a modern day Peter Pan. He rubbed his own wrists as if he was experiencing second-hand rope burn.

“Gone,” I said as I swallowed thickly and pat Dogmeat between the ears. “Did they say anything about where they're taking people?”

“You sayin' he beat us to the underground tunnels?”

“No. Gone, gone. Not here, gone... Wait. What're you saying about the tunnels?”

“He dead?”

“No. He's not dead. Mich. Tell me about the tunnels.”

“Why's he gone? Lovers spat?” Mich teased.

“Shut up and listen, or I will mess you up so sideways you'll be walking like a Mirelurk,” I said between forced laughs to downplay my unease and annoyance. If only he knew how close his joke was to truth. “Is the basement still open?”

Mich held his hands up in a mock surrender. “Take it easy. Roy, Randall, and I are the only ones with keys, but route should be open by now. Roy and Betsy made a break for it over an hour ago.”

“Forget about the others. Come with us,” one of the hostages pleaded. I searched between the faces of the four ghouls – they were fearful, but determined. How easy it would be to hide underground with them and wait for there to be nothing left above but hot cinders and windswept ash.

Making a show of shuffling my carbine's strap down my arm, I grabbed it by the stock and urged the trigger's pull forward to test its sensitivity and elasticity without actually pulling the trigger back. It budged a fraction of a millimeter and would need to be adjusted after tonight.

“Do you know what'll happen to them? The people they take? They'll be sold, tortured, and... if they're lucky? Killed. Slavers don't stop. They don't know how to. They'll keep taking people until there's no one left. Every single person is on their watch list. Including all of you. The harder we can make their first time here, the less likely they are to return for a second go,” I said. Speaking from personal experience was tricky. I didn't want to discredit the trust I'd built by admitting out-loud “I used to capture people, because I like to make my pockets sing the jingle-jangle,” but my advice was too valuable to not vocalize. Persistence from a would-be victim is the only way to discourage an attacker.

Mich slipped a gently used toothpick from his coat pocket and chewed it thoughtfully.

“You're alright, smoothie,” he said as he flicked the wooden splinter with his tongue. “I'll tell yeh what. Stick with us to ground floor. Once we're in the lobby you kill everyone yeh need ta kill and we'll offer backup support. The basements entrance'll be right there and we'll scamper off whenever you say so.”

Looking in the negative space between them left me with an uneasy sense of duty. Their weapons were meager, their armor was lacking, and one of them was barefoot. If this was supposed to be the climatic heroes gathering just before an incredible showdown, it had to be the roughest, sloppiest, most poorly planned amateur hour that I could ever possibly aspire to be.

“Nope. Don't like that. I'll escort you down, but we're not staying together. And you're not my backup.”

I am foolhardy and ready to lose everything.

The stench of melting plastic, burnt hair, and cooking flesh punched me violently in the gut the moment I creaked open the stairwell's first floor exit. Even the powerful ventilation of my armor wasn't enough to stop it from curling my nose hairs and making me dry retch. One of the four ghoul's behind me untied an age-stained shall from her shoulders and held it to her open nose. Skinny tears were absorbed by the fabric as they ran down her cheeks. I wasn't sure if it was the smoke that made her eyes water or the shock of what she saw. The first floor lobby was like something out of a grunge-horror comic book.

The greeting counter propped open the lobby's front doors where I'd checked in just hours before, and beyond that a pile of corpses too old, weak, or feral to be enslaved. In the center of the room a slaver wearing a gas mask and welding gloves held a large pair of pruning loppers. He opened the curved blades, pinched them upon an elbow, and squeezed the handles until the joint popped - separating forearm from bicep. He grabbed the dislocated section from the floor and carelessly tossed it like he was harvesting razorgrain. The limb landed into a half-full wheelbarrow that'd previously been used to mix tile grout.

The fire alarm was the loudest it'd ever been and the ferocity of its siren dulled my other senses, but it did not stop the small hairs on the back of my neck from standing.

Mich walked in front of us and stiffly leaned into the open room as he tried to see around a set of blackened, stone pillars. Dark silhouettes powdered the walls and floors where heavily upholstered wooden furniture and large paintings burned weakly, the flames dangerously close to blowing out as the evening's breeze whooshed through the open doorway. The slavers' shadow stretched up to the second floor and curved around the balcony like it was a demon pulling puppet strings. Bullets impaled the walls and staircase, and brass casings littered the still new pink tile.

I reached to one of the living ghouls behind me and gently pushed his shoulder to guide him out of the stairwell and towards the basement storage room with Mich. My gaze barely left the slaver or the open doors. He placed his hand on mine and pat it, the whites of his eyes irritated and reddened from the smoke around us. In the storage room, cleverly hidden behind a row of book cases, waited the entrance way to the same metro tunnels I'd infiltrated so many years ago.

Mich pressed his hand into his coat pocket and fidgeted with his key ring as he quietly approached the basement door. The door and frame were both heavily dented near the lock, and a crow bar leaned abandoned against the wall, as if someone had attempted to pry it open and failed. I cautiously toed the shadows and avoided full detection. If the slavers noticed movement, I wanted to be the first, best obstacle between them and the ghouls who'd already escaped once.

Cupping his hand around the doorknob, the security guard nudged the key to fit into its lock. His shoulders hunched downward as he slowly turned the key, then he sprang upright like a rubber band had snapped around his vertebrae to inspire action.

The ghoul shoved the keys back into his pocket and jostled his rifle with a teeter-totter motion as he creaked the door open with the pointed toe of his cowboy boot.

The fur along Dogmeats spine stood upright as he leveled his head and bared his teeth in the direction of the main entry way, his ferocious growl dampened by the intensity of the alarm. _What do you see?_

I squinted to look beyond the open double-doors. Just as quickly as the warning left the canine's throat another slaver walked into the lobby with his head down and two cottonswabs stuffed into his ears. He exchanged a few words with the raider who was busy processing corpses, and lifted a disembodied hand to play with it. He scrutinized the uneven skin, waved it at his friend for a morbid high-five, and tossed it back to the pile. I wasn't a lip reader... but laughter reads the same for everyone. I clenched my jaw and pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

The slaver that'd just entered the lobby grabbed the two long handles of the wheelbarrow, carefully spaced his feet shoulder width apart to get traction on the bloodied floor, and finally saw me when he turned his head to go outside. He opened his mouth and shouted something.

“Run!” I shouted to the two remaining ghouls behind me. They cried and shuffled quickly toward their last chance at salvation.

Without feeling I shot the morbid slaver through the top of his jaw bone and sent his ear plugs flying.

I directed Dogmeat by rolling my left arm to form an arch. The canine's head bobbed as his body compressed and lunged forward, his long nails slid against the slick floor and made it difficult for him to get started, but once his legs were moving there was no stopping him. He sprinted to a still-smoking couch with hot springs popping around the cushions, leaped over it, and landed with the grace of a radstag. He carefully ran toward the clothing store, Boutique Le Chic, and widely followed the wall towards the lobby's entry way.

The slaver who stood beside his dead friend and the wheelbarrow had exchanged his loppers for a small, sawed off shotgun, and ran toward the basement door to get within range.

I reached Mich and the others just in time to slap the basement door shut. The slaver fired his first deadly shot.

“What're you doing?” Mich shouted from the other side of the door. “We're 'sposed to be your back-up.”

I eyed the slaver. “Lock it and run.”

_ Damnit. I'm going to miss that knife. _

A dull, familiar tap on my hip reminded me that most bullets bounced off my armor, but larger slugs and junk-jet projectiles were both threats that could penetrate and embed themselves into the titanium.

The slaver opened the double barrel to the gun, but with all of his concentration could not load it with his next set of slugs. Agitated, he tore off his gas mask by its ear straps and chucked it to the ground.

With the same amount of care given to swatting away a bug, I brushed off the led ball that lodged itself into my hips plate, held my carbine by its butt and hand guard, and walked towards the slaver. While he was busy slamming his reloaded gun shut I lifted my own gun and jammed the butt of it into his nose. The feeble man dropped his shotgun as he fell to the ground and instinctively held his face as blood flowed between his clasped fingers. I kicked the weapon through a half-melted sheet of plastic.

“Where's Jones?” I yelled over the alarm, but the man said nothing.

It's so hard to ask for good directions these days.

In a flash of gray and black fur Dogmeat erupted from the lobby and lunged for a slaver who had trouble committing to whether or not she should stay outside. He bit the womans hand and jerked it towards him, shaking his head like he would a stuffed toy, and stepping his legs backward as he tried to pull her into the lobby. The woman screamed and stumbled forward, her thumb and pinky finger bordered his mouth as his canines pierced deeply into the top of her hand and palm.

“Where's--” I began to shout again, but the raiders had finally found the Tower's backup power and cut the battery. The fire alarm blared one final “whoop” and wound itself down as the finale. With the bulbs of the emergency lights exploding or going out, the most reliable light source cast its ugly, orange flames from the court yard.

Another pair of slavers entered the room and I redirected my attention quickly enough to shoot one in the calf, miss two additional shots, and then other just where his ribs bridged together.

In the stark silence another gun was fired.

Dogmeat yelped and released the woman. Her dark blood and his saliva dribbled from his mouth as he drunkenly sat on his back legs and panted and whined. She immediately backpedaled and cradled her hand to her chest as she ran outside for medical intervention.

Immediately I jolted to him and got on my knees to look for where he'd been hurt. The plastic and metal of my carbine clacked against the floor as the strap around my shoulder slackened. _ Anything. They can have anything, but him. _

I cupped my hands around his face and brushed my right thumb under his blue eye as I flashed my helmets flashlight into his brown one. The pupil dilated. Dogmeat whined and tried to pull himself away from my medically necessary survey. He nervously licked his dry nose and sleepily blinked.

“I know, I know. Shh. Shhh. You did so good. You did,” I praised as my voice cracked. I forgot everything happening around me. Why I was there, what I was protecting, and most importantly... who was missing.

The canine's head dipped as he found himself sliding forward. He corrected his front legs to stand underneath him, but his paws continued to slide forward until his elbows finally touched the floor and forced him to lay down. He looked confused – like he couldn't understand why standing had suddenly become so difficult.

I pulled my hands from him and both of my gloves were slick with his blood. Without a second thought I reached into my side, thigh pocket and pulled out the solitary stimpack I'd thoughtlessly packed this morning.

“Come outside,” a deep voice beckoned from out in the court yard.

As my eyes adjusted I could see the white, predatory smile that was Jones. He waved his hand towards himself as he casually gripped a wicker chair by its top and carried it to the doorway that separated the two sections of the property - the bloodied, gold golf club still clutched in his fist. “Please, come out. Don't be shy. Come, come, come. Be a good host to your guests.”

All that matters right now is my dog.

Still kneeling I unsheathed the stimpack's slim needle, pinched the extra fur on top of Dogmeat's neck, and administered the medicine into the elderly pup's scuff as if it was insulin for a diabetic. Slow and careful to lessen the sting. Even as gentle as I was, the pinch of the medicine was the equivalent of a fire ant's bite, but the canine had no reaction as his head continued to lower until his chin touched the floor. He closed his eyes.

The slavers stopped loading ghoul body parts and furniture to their morbid cooking fire, and wordlessly formed a half-circle around Jones and the chair. One woman balanced her elbow on top of a battered fatman like it was her crutch, while another poured a clear liquid from a plastic canister into old, brown glass bottles.

“I said _fucking_ come outside!” Jones roared as a thick glob of sweat dripped off his nose. He violently lifted and swung his golf club down onto the seat of the wicker chair, and punched a hole as wide as his fist through the delicately woven strands.

Abandoning his golden golf club in the seat of the chair, the dipshit boss tugged on the tattered lapels of his red business jacket and straightened himself. The ivory handle of a pistol glinted from a concealed holster and then vanished again under his jacket. Smoothly he reached into his breast pocket and brought from it a flip lighter with a fading spade printed on its side. Black smoke from the unattended fire billowed around him.

“All you worthless shits,” he said with restraint as he addressed the men and women around him. “Watch how a real gentlemen handles things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus words for this chapter because I took too long to update. Also, I'm just putting it out there now before you all turn on me for what happened to Dogmeat...
> 
> Very nice and necessary SPOILER alert. Our loyal, loveable doggy is going to pull through all of this tower nonsense with a full recovery.
> 
> Also also – a second update to this chapter. I didn't like how it originally sat with everyone “sneaking” away without a little bit of conflict. The stakes have to stay high.


	17. Choo-choo Flame Train

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

_Charon walked with a stride that could not be matched. His long legs seized the black top underneath us and propelled him forward for a relaxing walk, while my own short legs had to take two steps to match his one. My head buzzed with fatigue and impending heat stroke._

“_Oy. Slow down. Was your mother a Sheepsquatch? Damn – it's hot.” I squawked._

_The large ghoul stepped off to the side of the road as if he was expecting home-bound traffic during rush hour. Dead twigs and grass crunched under his feat as heavy sweat sat on his exposed skin and wet the collar of his t-shirt. The hollow skeleton of a dead bush rolled between us._

_I pulled off my Nuka Cola sunglasses, with cappy on the lenses, and clenched the right earpiece of the glasses between my teeth so that my hands were free. The lenses had been polarized with a special film to “find the hidden cappys” at the Nuka World theme park, but I liked them because they were good for spotting buttholes using Stealth Boys. Shimmery, glittery, ghostly, buttholes._

_Gliding _ _my palms _ _along _ _my face, I dragged them upward to remove sweat from my cheek bones and away from my eyes, then my finger nails scrapped through my hairline to comb curls back into place. With a single finger pressed to the frames, I pushed the glasses back up the bridge of my nose so that the tiny “cola cap peaks” that bordered the lenses probed into my cheeks._

Charon watched me through squinted eyes and remarked how I needed to get over being so sensitive to the sun. Rich advice coming from a man with enough sustained radiation he could be the next best cure for cancer.

_The _ _wonky _ _barricade that surrounded Big Town should have been a welcome sight, but the thought of baking in a wood house with a tin roof made my insides flop. The small group of Super Mutants stalking down the hill toward town weren't too encouraging either._

“_We going to help them?” the ghoul asked, referring to the teenagers who'd been outcast and banished from Little Lamplight. __Poorly prepared guardsmen __stood __on the other side of __the __town’s __main gate with broken pistols and baseball bats._

_I _ _clapped my hands in front of me and pointed them in his direction._

“_How? We haven't eaten. We're out of water. We're not even halfway to Oasis, and I ain't got any fight in me. I'll be eaten, digested, and __turned into fertilizer __before I get the chance __to yell my first obscenity__.”_

“_You're weak,” he said._ _The ghoul blew air between his teeth and picked up one corner to his smile. _

_Weak? I'm weak?_

“_Excuse me for having a pulse, but knowing my limit is not weakness.”_

“_It is. For knowing your limit and stopping. You want to survive out here, vault dweller? Get used to being uncomfortable. Get so used to it that you're good friends. Know your limit, respect it, and push it. If you don't? Well... people die when they start stopping,” Charon said._

_I sucked on the inside of my cheek and stepped toward him so that I could look up and be as eye-to-eye as possible without needing a step ladder. Chewing the flesh between my molars, I looked from one pale blue eye and to the other, waiting for his front to somehow falter or hint that he was just blowing smoke to seem impressive... but his conviction was solid. He spoke not just from his own discomfort in the moment, with blazing hot sweat pooling in his ass-crack and soggy military socks so pungent they could sterilize lab equipment as effectively as an autoclave, but he spoke from a lifetime of discomfort. He was the walking definition for ignoring personal needs and comforts._

“_Okay, big guy” I said softly as I returned his smile. “Can you teach me how?”_

_Always eager for the hunt, the ghoul _ _gloated as he _ _pulled his shotgun _ _forward and _ _gingerly grope_ _d_ _ the trigger._

“_It __would be my pleasure__.”_

Stepping out out of the lobby and into the smokey courtyard, there was only one thing on my mind. Kill whoever shot my dog or take them all down with me trying. I held my rifle with so much anger that my fingers ached.

There were exactly eleven slavers who stayed behind to round up stragglers and pull clean-up duty. I observed the three who open carried their guns, and mentally addressed the missile launcher as my first task.

“Listen. I’m going to speak loudly and clearly so that you all can make a solid, educated decision on what I'm about to dish out. What you choose to do with your disgusting lives is up to you,” I announced. The bitterness in my tone was as much restraint as I could muster without vocalizing a slew of swear words and unintelligible threats.

The slavers exchanged snickers and snide remarks.

Screw it. There was no point in heroic speeches. I'll just have to kill them all – starting with...

“Who shot the dog?”

“Who the hell cares?” asked the man making molotovs. Using the slim tip of a gun cleaning rod, he rammed a wet scrap of fabric into the mouth of a glass bottle and handed it to Jones.

Jones politely thanked him and held the homemade grenade up as if making a toast. “To this evening. Our new friends. And our new base,” he chimed. His team of raiders hooted like wolves as he lifted his flip lighter, struck the flame, and lit the gasoline saturated fabric scrap. The fire roared and flashed around the bottle, interrupting the victory speech he may have had to rally his troops and forcing his hand to throw the bottle before he was ready.

The brown, glass cylinder cracked over my metal chest as flame blossomed over my left arm, shoulder, and neck. My power armors regulatory cooling kicked-in to compensate for the temperature change and adjusted my discomfort into a warm, toasty feeling - like putting on a cozy sweater on a brisk, autumn day. To save my carbine from the scorching heat, I tossed it back toward the main lobby’s entryway and crossed my fingers that nobody picked it up. Irony would be being shot with your own gun. The shoulder strap waved as it soared through the air like it was saying premature goodbyes. I rolled my shoulders while my empty belly growled. _Stay limber._

Evidently, raiders had never considered the flame-retardation properties that went into a good suit of power armor. I was a wrecking - ball -choo-choo-train of flames , piss, and vinegar .  Closing my  my eyes , I  tuned into the sound of blood whooshing against my ears drums with each individual heart beat. With a clear head I stepped a foot forward and  bowed my shoulder  just like I’d watched Charon do the day before , and propelled the entire suit of armor into the woman holding the missile launcher.

Splashes of gasoline fanned off my body and rained black soot and flames onto the ground behind her as her inappropriate crutch was slapped to the side. A large piece of the missile launchers outer shell broke off and tumbled away from its frame. The slavers feet dislodged from the ground and she fell backward. First landing on her elbows, then her head cracked against the empty water fountain's solid rim behind her, and the wind left her lungs. Her mouth was uncomfortably wide she tried to scream at the engorged flames I'd transferred to her, but she couldn't quite muscle the air needed to get the sound out.

The power armors main fan on my back purred and cooled the machine.

A hollow force  shook  my stomach where another raider struck me with a rusting, aluminum bat. I  barely  folded, grabbed his wrist, and jerked him into me. My helmet slammed into his forehead and bounced his whole body backward. Maintaining my hold, I stomped on to the brittle bones on the top of  his foot and dropped him to his knees. Flames slid down my arm and ignited the long, worn sleeve of his waffle-patterned long john shirt. I threw him onto his back as small bullets clanged against me, but did not penetrate.

Having feasted on the last of my gasoline cloak, singed metal glowed a blackened orange as the flames that engulfed me began to dissipate. The small blaze around my feet cackled as it searched for the dead grass that spurt up between cement cracks. A few slavers stepped towards their own controlled fire as if it would protect them from the flames I started.

Another molotov hit me. Glass shards flew like tiny spears from the back of my head and fanned around me, creating a hellish halo of awful smoke and bright blaze. I stumbled forward and turned my attention to Jones, the third biggest threat besides me and the broken missile launcher.

My armor creaked and protested as I stepped towards him, the knees locking so stiffly that even an easy jog would be too big a burden. It was as if the hydraulic joints had been flushed with Wonderglue. The heat around me intensified as the power armors fan chugged, sputtered, and wound down to a barely registrable groan.

As dread messed with my sense of direction, a set of invisible hands wrapped themselves around my ribcage and squeezed tightly. I wobbled. I'd forgotten about the make-shift substitute for the fan’s belt, and the stretchy, thin, nylon pantyhose must snapped from the heat. Panic took me and I tried to eject from the machine, but it hugged me tight.

_Shit shit shit shit._

I leaned back and stepped my heel just so, once again asking the machine to release me. As the heat penetrated through the armor's protective plates the metal frame that supported my left  arm, neck, and face  mercilessly  nipped  my flesh like the stagnate needle of a tattoo gun. I recoiled and beat my free hand against my  armored  side to try and smother the flames, but instead I splashed pools of  fresh  gasoline  all around me. My left thigh and foot blazed as strongly as the fire that lit it.

I  wailed as angry,  white hot metal burned  my skin  and the logistical camera to my helmets vision fizz led and zapped out , trapping me in heat and darkness.

“Got a problem, hero?” Jones asked confidently.

Yeah, I got a problem.

I inched in the direction of his voice, assuming if I could find him at least I could give him a big ol' hug to celebrate our sense of good sportsmanship. The rest of  my armor  seized.  Fearful of my last breaths, I began to hyperventilate.  My head bobbed inside the blazing coffin as my heartbeat thrummed, the fire stole my oxygen, and the threat of losing consciousnesses tickled the funny, cold place at the base of my skull.

My power armor beeped. Then it beeped again. And again. I knew that sound. What did it mean? I couldn't remember. Suddenly a whoosh of unapologetic cold air massaged my spine and cradled the back of my neck. I limply fell back through the opening of the armor, twisting my ankles out of the boots as I landed on the pavement. Small pebbles embedded themselves into my palms as my blistering pores tried to sweat out the toxins from burnt titanium, plastic, gasoline, and smoke. I rolled to my front so that I could stand on my forearms and knees, and bowed my head below my shoulders to accommodate my bodies immediate need to cough.

Jones laughed as he approached me.

“Oh my. 101? Is that you? I've been wondering where you went off to.”

I hacked hard enough that I expected a chunk of lung to find itself into my mouth. “Sure,” I croaked. I pinched my eyes shut and tried to will away the searing pain that flanked my upper-left side. Even my ear hurt.

The pointed tips of fire-gecko skinned boots fell into my view.

“I knew you were hard, but...” Jones whistled and opened his arms wide to gesture the carnage around him. “I didn't know you were capable of all... this. And what you did on the stairs? I’m impressed. It'd be a shame if someone so skilled and so crooked for caps had to die tonight. What're you doing here? You should be fighting on our side,” The slaver king sung sweetly as he squat beside me. He hummed a jolly tune to lift my spirits and disarm me.

_Dipshit boss. _ He's just a dipshit. Tell him to fuck off.

“Fuck off.”

He laughed again, this time an octave lower.

“Shame. Well. That's that,” Jones said as he stood upright. He toed my charred shoulder with his fancy boots and pushed against me, knocking me off balance so that I fell onto my side. The cold cement was almost soothing and I eagerly pressed my cheek to the ground. It was hard to think about anything other than the pain and how to make it stop. He clicked his fingers and pointed to the grotesque bonfire. “Hey! Somebody? Can we get more flamer fuel on that before it goes out? Why do I have to be the one to notice everything around here? Take some initiative.”

Two slavers energetically carried several plastic containers between them and one-by-one they doused the fire with thick, pungent, brown oil. Yellow-white flames flourished and crackled, so that the inferno of body parts and tower furniture healthily blazed once more.

I sighed and looked up to the night sky. The  fading  stars were mostly obscured by black, gray smoke, and just beyond the cement fence-line a dusting of pink and orange clouds winked back at me. It was morning? I was so tired. My eyelids drooped.

“Come now, 101? You can't fall asleep. I'm going to knock out all your pretty teeth and use your blood as lube to suck my dick. Then let me boys share you. Then cook you with all of your ghoul friends. Please, stay awake. Please?” Jones spoke, but his threats weren't enough to take me out of my stupor.

Lazily I looked to the top-most floors of Tenpenny Tower and saw that the flames had reached there too. Smoke billowed out from the double-doors of my suite as a celebratory firework sharply whistled into the sky and erupted just beyond my peripheral vision.

One of the slavers saw it too and stopped everyone to watch the sky. “You saw that, right?” he asked.

A second firework rolled off my patio and detonated halfway down the tower. Everyone jumped around me.

“Ghouls throwing grenades? Are they stupid?” someone called from the background. I was having trouble staying focused or deciphering what noise came from where.

An explosion of smoke, debris, and noise erupted like a volcano bursting through my side of the tower, causing large slabs of cement to plummet from a dozen floors above and shake the ground as they made contact. Some of my belongings, red hot, flew out through the doors too. Cans of food, pieces of the Nuka-Cola machine, my work bench... odds and ends that were necessary for my day-to-day comforts were raining down on us and crash-landing to make for an interesting yard-sale.

Jones locked his eyes up and quickly jolted to the side, dodging one of the many displaced hunks of wall that landed near us. The thud of the slab so near to me sent electricity into my heart, legs, and arms, and I compressed into a fetal position to protect my head. The intensity of almost being crushed was enough to wake up my instincts and remind me that I wasn’t dead yet. I bit back a cry as I rolled onto my belly and weakly willed myself back to my dead armor. I traced my fingers up the right leg until I came to the unburned pocket that was strapped there. I popped the button, reached into the pocket, and pulled out Charon's Psycho-jet and Mich's utility knife.

_Apparently keeping a box of_ _ misfit explosives_ _ tucked under my bed actually served a purpose._

I'd taken Jet many times before, but no amount of medical textbook literature could have prepared me for Psycho. With my fist tightly gripping the triple-barreled syringe I thumped the needle deep into my chest and cried. The sound that fled my voicebox was a blend of pain and animalistic pleasure. Groaning, my feet took the ground, I pushed myself up, and I was standing. Like a feather tickling my side, neurons in my brain misfired and confused the world-stopping ache of melted skin and quarter-inch tall blisters for something semi-pleasant. Everything was happening so slowly around me. Slavers bumbled around each other, uncoordinated and fearful, as they collected their supplies and fled through the front gate to leave the circumference of falling suite fragments. Maybe, if I'm lucky, the explosion could throw my medkit down for me too.

Withdrawing the first tool that my fingers fell upon in Mich’s utility knife, I tightly squeezed a corkscrew between two of my knuckles and gripped the red case like I would a pair of brass knuckles. Jones wasn’t far off. He shouted some garbage about reuniting and returning to the tower in several days to pick among the leftovers. I playfully bowed my head to the side until I caught his line of sight. The red and purple dyes of his getup were unrealistically bright and colorful. Was he the only colorful thing? I looked around.

_Nope_.

Colors were ungodly beautiful everywhere. The grass was green? Was that green? It was gorgeous. And the sky was so brilliantly painted I could take swabs from the air and eat it like candy.

_Come back, Shae. Focus_.

“How the hell are you still standing?” Jones seethed as the veins in his temple's pulsed underneath his sooty skin.

I inched towards the abandoned golfclub stuck in the chair and made a show of putting my attention on it, hoping to fake him out and be close enough to land a punch. Jones mirrored me as I lunged right, and at the last moment I swung my shoulders up and forward as he took hold of the golfclub and pulled it from the chair. He held the gold weapon up, victorious, as I thrust my hand toward him and plunged the corkscrew up through his jaw.

The slave leader gaped his mouth wide open and displayed the steel tip of the screw as it broke through the flesh just under his tongue. With my free hand I reached into his coat, took hold of his pistol, and fired it while it was still holstered.

“That’s that,” I said mockingly.

_Agony_ .

One of his raider goons snuck behind me and dug  her  nails into my blistering arm, pulling me away and dislodging the corkscrew from under Jones’ palette . Bloody red bubbles frothed from his mouth as  he  spit and firmly held his hand over where the bullet had impaled him. I stomped back  against  the bony  ridge  of the raiders  knee , elbowed her to get her off me, and then shot her too. She let go and fell, lifeless, to the ground. Did Psycho-Jet improve aim?

I took a deep breath as my vision waned, and clumsily dragged my heels against the ground as if I were trying to moon walk. I stumbled backward and sat down with the pistol and utility knife barely clasped within my hands. The drug was dissipating. Had it already been a minute? Time  sped around me between  lazy  blinks, and through hazy eyes I saw two raiders join underneath Jones and drag him away. Another small pelt of debris  from above  landed beside me.

I kept guessing that Charon would show up to save the day… but he never did, just like he was told. I was alone.

Looking up again at the sky, I let myself become distracted by the optimistically orange stratus clouds that welcomed in the early morning . They reminded me of ships riding gracefully on easy waters.

Damn.  It was going to be a beautiful day.

As the last of the Psycho-Jet left my system, my other unattended needs made themselves alarmingly clear. Fatigue. Hunger. Pain. And the aftermath of a drug too powerful for someone who weighed as little as I did. Acidic bile from my empty stomach rebelled against me, climbing up my stomach and making me retch. Yellow liquid fell into my lap and soaked the thighs of day old pants. I gagged and tried to vomit a second time, but nothing came. Dismissing the snot that dribbled down my face, I closed my eyes, and collapsed onto the unyielding cement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't let one of the last line mess with your sense of direction. Charon has a special grand entrance planned that'll hopefully make all of this Charon-less-ness tolerable.
> 
> Gosh. Fight scenes are exhausting. And fun. Yay, Shae.


	18. Hiding

****Disclaimer:**** Fallout belongs to Bethesada.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a world that knew only death and decay. Life did not take root, as the water and soil it relied on was poison to drink and walk on. The people knew this, and no matter how many tears they cried it was not enough for their crops to grow. Nothing could be the way it was back in the before. Then an unwilling doctor came along with her solider and from their suffering something wonderful happened. The water flowed clean again.

Nicotine drew in, gray smoke found its way out. I sealed my lips around the cigarette for one last, relenting suck and then snuffed heat from the stale tobacco by squeezing it between my left forefinger and thumb. Physically the heat never registered as it smudged its black residue on my fingertips, but realistically my brain told me I should be more careful. My nerves were shot to shit. Carefully I tucked what was left of the cigarette in between the broken seams that tacked on the “B” to my letterman jacket, like it was some kind of imitation breast pocket, then squared my eyes up to a set of binoculars. Dogmeat lifted the whiskers above his eyebrows, but did not lift his fat gray head from my knee. He burped inside his closed mouth and curled his black and pink tongue around decaying teeth.

I firmly pat him on his side, but kept my eyes on the trade route that was several miles out from Canterbury Commons. Three times a day the caravans would swap occupancy around the dead oak tree just outside of town, and twice a day I logged who arrived and when. Crazy Wolf Gang reliably visited every other day coming from the west or south west, while Doctor Hoff had a slight interruption several months ago to his average routine and began arriving every Tuesday or Wednesday morning from the south east. For whatever reason the Talon Company only had interest in two specific traders and weren't about to pay extra for details about traders they didn't ask me for. I tried to get honest work with Rileys Rangers, but as she delicately put it, “Timely, reliable results don't matter when the person promising them is an unhinged liability with a death warrant.”

Shifting my weight to the side, I slid out the notebook that'd been pinned by my thigh and flipped between its led-heavy pages until I reached my last entry. I promised myself when the book was full I'd stop taking odd jobs, buy that ferry ticket, and get the hell away from the Capitol... but there was still room to cram a few more words between some strangers pre-war math notes. As the weeks became months the book was dangerously close to filling, so I wrote smaller and forced lines of print between faded-blue grid lines and irrelevant equations that sought imaginary numbers. My father insisted that my steadfast stubbornness came from my mothers side.

I double-checked the time on my pipboy. 5:07 pm. Doctor Hoff's lateness was making me late. Extending my legs, my muscles sore, there was some relief from the sunbaked black roof underneath me. My feet were killing me, but I couldn't complain about the shoes. Several weeks ago I napped in an abandoned sports store which happened to have a wonderful pair of mountain-climbers in my size. Shoes never come along in my size. “Princess feet” is what Butch used to call them. The rubber soles curled higher than my utility boots and offered ankle support that was unmatched, making them my go-to choice for day-to-day interactions and super high-level sneaking.

I looked to Dogmeat just as his stomach rumbled. He burped again.

“You hungry?” I asked.

With wide eyes the mutt lifted his head and thumped his tail. He boofed in my face.

“Ugh! Your breath stinks!” I laughed and pushed his face away from me. “Breathe that way.” He affectionately licked the salt from my face.

It wasn't until nearly dark that Doctor Hoff finally made his way to town. Even from my perch on top of the old Robot Factory I could tell that his business jacket was torn, he was minus one bodyguard, and his pack brahmin had a limp so bad that it was likely going to make someone a lovely steak breakfast.

Grumbling a select few obscenities, I stood and shook the lethargy from my arms and legs. Why couldn't tonight be a normal night?

Let it be known that the “good doctor” was jumpy. It may have been the bandanna wrapped around my face and sunglasses at night, or my phenomenal sneak shoes, but he said he was open to trade so long as I had the caps. He looked like a man who hadn't had a proper nights rest in months. I knew the feeling.

Swinging from its ankles a freshly killed adolescent turkey vulture hung from my backpack with its wings pinned to its chest. Dogmeat and I walked around the crumbling steps that led down to the Museum Metro Station and instead followed the large, stone faces of grimacing giants attached to walls and pillars.

I took possession of Willow's old spot and leaned against the wall, making sure to keep my front facing the Mall and trenches where the Super Mutant population flourished. After several long minutes of listening to nothing more than howling wind circling the large alcove, Dogmeat and I went inside. The Museums main entrance suffered an assault so devastating that the doors had been blown inward, slanting on their hinges with the bottom corners physically embedded into the floor. Their thin aluminum panels absorbed most of the shock and splintered into curly, needle-like thorns around the steel frames. Underworld's entrance was permanently exposed to the world like the open mouth of a corpse, reminding anyone who passed it that the inhabitants were gone or dead. Deader than dead. Do not visit the stores. Do not fill your bellies. Do not rent a bed from Carol. Do. Not. Enter. The only life left were the feral ghouls who had an uncanny homing beacon programmed into their subconscious.

While I was busy fighting my battle at Tenpenny, Charon had been busy fighting his. Underworld had no bodies left after the great burn. For days the fire was fed fresh oxygen as the museums doorway pulled in fresh air and fed it to the expertly restored ventilation system. Gray ash settled over the floor and unrecognizable mounds, and stained the walls and ceilings black with soot. Small bits of rubble, the size of marbles, hid under the ash ready to roll underfoot, sprain ankles, and shred palms.

The ticking of the mutts nails were muffled as ash stuffed itself in between his furry toes. He circled the charred lumps that used to be information desks and relieved himself. Tonight would be our last night bedding down in Winthrops old office, then it was back to the metros.

The upright metal barrel in the women's bathroom was still warm from the blaze I'd set sometime in the early morning. As Dogmeat and I slipped into the small room a thick rope that was secured to the top of a bathroom stall and strung to the door's handle temporarily went slack, then pulled tightly again as the partially melted fiberglass door closed behind us. Hanging above the barrel, draped on the rope, were what I considered to be a “fresh” set of clothes. I abandoned my backpack and rifle underneath the porcelain sink, then set to work building the fire back up. The last of a wooden chair, broken into manageable pieces the length of my forearm, were dropped onto the cinders. Crouching low, I blew through one of the many bullet-punched holes in the barrel and encouraged the heat to take hold. Sparks leapt and landed on a piece of chair upholstery, cackling as it burned the polyester stuffing and fabric. The fire sizzled, then took hold.

Dogmeat knew the routine. He laid by the door and twitched his limbs every time I reached into my backpack just in case “this time it was dinner”. I took off my shoes and delicately placed them near the smoking barrel, then stripped off all of my layers until I was bare. I was vulnerable. A thin layer of smoke began to build overhead, and no matter how many times I did this it did not get easier, but what choice did I have? Sleeping in town like a normal person would very likely get me killed. This was as safe as safe got.

With water from the sink and soap from my pack I washed my cotton letterman jacket, Sunset Sarsaparilla tshirt, jeans, and undergarments in the large, metal shell that used to belong to the buildings security robot, Cerberus. Once my clothes were clean of “me” to my satisfaction, I took handfuls of the soapy water and mixed it with the floors ash and dirt to scrub my skin until the grit hurt. My right hand slipped over the pigment-damaged skin of my left arm, ribs, and neck as the dark paste buried into the small ghoul-like grooves that healed there. The initial damage may have been almost two years ago, but the loss was still fresh in my gut. My burned nerves were touchy and existed to torment me with one extreme or the other – too sensitive or too dull.

The last step to my nightly bath was the one I hated the most. I stood in the center of the bathroom with the pipe grate directly underneath me and spread my feet shoulder length apart. Gently grabbing the handle of a full yellow mop-bucket on wheels, I pulled it close to me and starred into the dark water. Chunks of charcoal floated in a soup of sheeny, oily animal fat and freezing black water. I hefted up last nights dinner and dumped it over me.

Gallons of water spilled over me and splashed onto the floor, pooling out and then back in as it whirl-pooled down the drain. I gasped at the freezing cold while goose bumps raised all over my skin and contracted my pores, veins, and breasts.

“Sh-hit,” I stuttered between whooping breaths. I wrung my hands around my long, slim dread locks, two at a time, to squeeze out the excess water. Dogmeat fussed over his hungry belly.

Unable to wait I tore yesterdays smoke and gasoline suffocated clothes from the rope line and forced them over my clammy wet skin. The old, black t-shirt was far too large for my build and made me feel small and insignificant. Poorly spaced loops of thread in the shirt held together a horizontal, knife-wide hole near my hip. It was one of the few things I had left of him.

I half-heartedly slung my sopping clean clothes over the rope line and took extra care to concentrate it all directly above the barrel, but not so close the fabric would catch fire while unattended. From my backpack I pulled out a small plastic bottle that was half full of a bright blue liquid. I twisted off the red cap and poured window cleaner over the infant flames. Immediately the fire jumped, clawing up the sides of the rusted barrel and kissing my fingers. The sting from the heat was minimal. I yelped and dropped the plastic bottle into the fire, my heart pounded, my head suddenly heavy and lite all at once. I needed to get out. I couldn’t think straight. I ripped the dead vulture from its twine bindings on my pack, pulling so hard the ankles snapped, and flung it into the barrel to cook. Poisonous smog settled on the ceiling as I clumsily whipped my backpack and gun strap's together over my shoulder. The force kicked my carbine directly into my right ass cheek. It was going to take all night for the to fire weave a new aroma into my clothes. Bolting from the room, Dogmeat hurried beside my heels and got ready to attack whatever it was that was attacking me. The bathroom door closed behind us and tucked away the flame, smell, and blackness.

I braced myself by holding onto the corner of what may have once been an end table. Its charred surface was smooth in my palm. With bare feet submerged in ash I tried to center myself. I gulped, then closed my eyes. I pushed the sound of breaking glass bottles, fluid spilling, and crackling fire from my forethought, and forced myself to listen to the here and now. The dogs panting grounded me.

My head is suffocated by anxiety.

_I am safe. I am not on fire. I am safe. There’s no heat. I am safe._

That’s it.

Clear my head.

I held my dominant hand in front of me and waited for it to stop shaking.

It took several minutes of repeating the same mental mantra to myself until I felt slightly more present - slightly less threatened. My heart settled.

With steadier hands I pat my leg, opened my eyes, and beckoned the canine to follow me into what had once been the mammoth room.

Here is where I changed my gait. Eyes down, legs drunk, and movements slow and calculated. In the farthest corner a sitting feral ghoul tracked me. He tilted his head left and then right as he tried to make sense of my body mechanics. A dead rat balanced precariously on his knee with its blood and entrails staining his blue rocket pajama pants. The feral sniffed the air through his broken nose, but the rat blood on his teeth and chin, along with my spectacular hygiene, helped shield what I really was. I looped my hand into Dogmeat’s collar and let him lead me.

The mutt leveled his head and shoulders as he walked, wordlessly identifying where each feral in the darkened room was with just a point of his nose and swivel of his ears. My human vision strained just to see the clues on his graying face. Ferals didn't care for prey that could bite back and mostly ignored or avoided dogs. An easy break for me.

At the end of the room I gently pushed on one of the two solid, warped metal doors. My smudged handprints on the handle and soot marked how many times I'd done this since the slavers took everything, as if by some miracle he'd come back and I wouldn't be alone anymore.

The past is the past. I should move on.

We entered Underworld, but instead of climbing the stairs to Carol's old inn we made our way to the back of the first floor in perfect darkness. Dogmeat walked with his body grazing against the wall, directing me where to turn next as he led us to our quiet solitude. Somewhere nearby wet meat slapped together as a pair of ferals used each others bodies to release one of natures most primal impulses. On second thought, I'm damn glad I can't see.

The dog stopped and pawed the door to the large maintenance closet.

Too long ago I woke with the worlds worst migraine, a pistol in my hand, a mutt at my side, stinking of sick, and handful of living feral ghouls sunning around me like I was one of the gang. That was the best survival lesson I ever learned about the wasteland. Smelling like burnt awfulness made for a very safe living arrangement as a woman trying to stay under the radar. I liked that feral ghouls were honest and predictable – they screech when they see food and hunt as a unit. I couldn't afford real security, because all of my savings rained down onto the court yard along with everything else I owned and remaking that kind of caps was taking longer than I expected.

That was the same day Three Dog painfully requested a moment of silence over the radio for all the lives lost when Tenpenny Tower and Underworld burned to the ground. A “twin assault against ghouls” he called it. Once in a while he gives me a polite shout-out to say something sappy like, “Lone Wanderer, if you're back to fighting the good fight, pay your ol' uncle Three Dog a visit and let us know you're still kicking. Because, the Capitol doesn't make 'em like they used to.” It was as if he was looking out for me, in his own way. Just days after the Tower burned I learned that Eulogy Jones was still alive, still pissed off, and his crew had strict orders to “kill on sight, but bring the head”. I liked my head. I worked hard to keep my head attached to my body. Ever since that day I kept my head low and my whereabouts a secret.

With his back paws dirtying my pillow, Dogmeat greedily slept inside the remains of a sideways turned refrigerator where I spread my sleeping bag. I didn't have the heart to disturb him. I turned on Winthrop's old HAM radio and shuffled between the stations to make my first call. I brought the receiver to my lips. The soft, yellow glow from the radio's face didn't reach farther than the desk it sat on.

“I am alpha and omega,” I said into the receiver.

Was Three-Dog awake? Was he listening? I tried again.

“I am alpha and omega.”

I counted to twenty, then thirty, and at fourty-six he finally answered. “I am the beginning and the end,” he said groggily.

Yes!

“What'cha got for me?” I asked.

The radio DJ took his time replying, likely gathering papers, but he returned to the radio quickly enough. “Jones' boys are all over Rivet City,” he said. “They think you'll show up to defend Project Purity.”

“I think maybe I won't. What else you got?”

“Not much more than that. Nothing changes for the good. We need a hero.”

“What about you? You can do it. People like you.”

Three-Dog laughed long and heartily. “Me? I just read the news. You're the one people want to see.”

I bit my inner cheek and swallowed thick phlegm. I should hydrate more.

“101? You there?” he asked.

“Yeah. I'm here. I need to get to bed. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Anytime... You take care of yourself. Also, when you get a chance, can we talk about-”

I grabbed the radio's dial and rolled through the channels, stealing his opportunity to back me into a corner and say something sappy or dad-like. My second call should be a little easier. Slavers liked the higher frequencies.

“Four score,” I chimed.

The man on the other end must have been eagerly waiting by his radio, because he replied almost instantly. “And seven years ago.”

“How's it going, Leroy? Damn. That shit never gets old. The irony.”

“It was your idea,” he said, bemused.

I had a coded introduction to every contact I maintained. If the wrong response was given, I could simply hang up and wait a few days before trying again.

I hated calling him. I hated everything about talking to him. I hated who I pretended to be just to get information about Jones and his slavers. But to get information, one had to give something else back. I flirted without restraint. Everything a person could imagine from the girlish titter to the stuttering compliments, even adding a personal detail about my sexual preference to pad the lies. I could hear Leroy opening his belt buckle when it was his turn to speak.

“Oh! Before I forget. I heard a rumor,” I said.  
  
“Did you now?” he was all breathless and gross. There were no illusions, the slave trader was yanking the snake. “What was it?”

“Talon Company got an open contract from Paradise Falls. A contract even bigger than mine.”

Leroy sighed into the mic. “That's true. Big enough and expensive enough that if you cut out the middle man and went straight to Jones, he'd let bygones be bygones.”

_ He can't be serious. _

“Who do I need to kill and where?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a problem with cliffhangers. The doctor says it's a disease and I can't be blamed for all the brain cells I kill every time I do it. Or... what if it's because I don't have any brain cells that I make cliffhangers? Gasp!
> 
> This chapter was just a tiny, insignificant, barely noticeable, time leap from where we last left off. Don't worry, I'll call back to all the details we missed as the story progresses. And hang on to your pipboys Charon fans... he's coming back next chapter.
> 
> Totally socially awkward shout-out to a new FLW/Charon story I've been reading titled “Mojave Baby”. The author is hilarious and, knowing my track record, will likely update a heck of a lot more often than I do, so be sure to check it out.


	19. The Fortress

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

I snorted into the receiver when Leroy described the hit. Jones' must have subscribed to my dipshit boss theory, because this open (more important than mine) contract was for the two leaders of a ghoul rebellion, with bonus points if I got their sidekick too.

Not a lot was known about “the twins”, as Leroy so affectionately called them, other than the fact that they weren’t actually brother and sister. They met in the Brotherhood’s sniping division, and when the female turned into a ghoul practically overnight she was kicked out to preserve the purity of the enlisted. Her companion decided the best course of action was to go AWOL and stay with her. The two traveled north to run with Gunners, and once that got old they returned to the Capitol. As if it were a disease that could be caught, the males ghoulification has been a long, on-going process with which he still has not completed. Leroy assured me there was no romantic connection between the two, even though it’d have been useful for leverage if push came to shove.

No biggie.

A pair of ghouls weren’t shit so long as their base wasn’t built on top of an old nuclear power plant, but what gave me pause was the hired muscle working with them. While they never hurt Jones’ person like I had, they were in his way of a valuable business expansion involving a shit-ton of ghouls seeking sanctuary. No wonder the bounties were so high.

The prospect of being free rendered me speechless. I could go wherever I wanted, do whatever I wanted, and not worry that the polite stranger I was talking to was a mercenary or assassin. Hearing Leroy ask me “what I was wearing” was enough of a reality check that I remembered I wasn’t out of the woods just yet.I held the receiver long enough to flush out the rest of the details. He suggested I follow route 210 to save time, but the first rule to staying alive is to walk where nobody dares to go.

“Get out of here, you turd.”

I shuffled forward and waved my hand behind me to shoo Dogmeat away. After three solid days of following the Potomac River south he'd finally given up chasing the random hare or molerat, and instead found entertainment in nipping my heels - one at a time. The mutt bounced backward and grinned, bending his shoulders low and waving his butt high. He hopped forward again and nipped me.

“I said fuck off. You can't herd me,” I scolded in between smiles and goofy faces.

With the hope of surprising him I turned on my heel to a crouch, wrapped one arm around his fluffy neck, and pinned him between my elbow and ribs so that he was in a head lock. I fixed my wrist underneath the sharp ridges of his skull, then gently dug the knuckles of my free hand into his forehead. Dogmeat wriggled and pushed as he set all four paws into the ground. He made funny dog noises and fought against me, compressing his entire body and then snapping back like a spring releasing tension. As he dragged me back I lost my hold and landed flat on my ass into a puddle. Dirty water splashed all around us, sparing him and soaking my backside. The canine pranced around me and gleefully stole another nip at my shoes.

Great. This is who I am now. A walking ghost who can’t even get the respect of her own dog. I promised Leroy everything that Jones would want to hear, packed what little I owned, and set out to kill some folks. If I was lucky it could be over in one week, have a ferry ticket in two, and be in Maryland in six.

Being wronged by two of the four elements I felt secure with my feet on the ground and head looking out to the sky. Safety was dirt and oxygen. The sky, still sickly pale with gray clouds, threatened another storm. Cold wind tickled the radioactive puddles and dragged small waves across the surface. Rad storms were often dramatic and took days, sometimes weeks, to clear.

Scratch that.

Safety was deep underground, tucked away from radioactive rain, radioactive lightening, and foul, metallic smelling air that could rival a decomposing donkey fart.

Maybe Vault life wasn't so bad.

With my pipboy whining at me, I picked myself up and untucked my sopping wet shirt from baggy cargo pants. I wrung the cotton material between my hands while the canine watchedfrom a safe distance.

“Oh yeah. Laugh it up. You're getting a bath next time the river bends this way. Butt-face breath,” I sneered humorously, putting extra emphasis on the “B” sounds. Dogmeat snapped his mouth closed and turned his head toward the cluttered hillside. Dead, weather beaten, tree trunks erupted through the cakey earth like flesh-bare skeletal fingers with splinter sharp, broken tops. The predictably safe river meandered in the opposite direction. With his nose pointed into the breeze his nostrils twitched as he took in the varying smells that rolled down the hill.

I whistled and pat my leg, but his stare remained fixed. I pat my thigh a second time with more insistence.

“Dog,” I said, “No.”

Dogmeat gave me the side-eye while keeping his nose pointed to the wind.

“No. Stay.”

He huffed the air again, then took off running into the trees.

Damnit. There was no fighting instinct.

_Hopefully it's dinner._

Climbing the hill the canine barely flinched as he snapped twigs and pushed through low, extending branches. I trekked not far behind him. When we reached the treeline I finally knew what it was that stole his brain and drove him away from the barely there dirt-road that followed the river. The heavy smell of day-old meat sat on the air like we were standing outside of a butcher shop. Something died recently, but what?

By what?

To conserve time I chose compact over power and withdrew an ivory-handled pistol from my waistband. Despite spending most of its time tucked between my spine and jacket, the gun's handle was cool to the touch. I could see why Jones liked it.

_Double-scratch that._

Safety's a loaded gun.

Gradually I began to lose track of Dogmeat. He'd stop somewhere ahead of me, sniff the air and ground, then take off sprinting before I had the chance to catch up. Too mindful of “human noise”, I refrained from calling his name, whistling, or even patting my leg again - my life was owed to following the basic rule of “be less-human”. There wasn’t a lot that still scared me... except for semi-avoidable panic attacks, but those were few and far between. I strained my ears towards the trees and looked critically over the forest floor for dog-sized prints in the rain-soft soil.

I reached the top of the hill and looked down over its crest where the slope steepened and trees thickened. The abrupt decline dared me to try and cross it without losing my footing. From the way his foot prints were spaced and stretched in the mud I could tell he wasn’t phased by the prospect of losing his balance. Gradually edging my way down the hill I circled widely and accepted the aid of erupting roots and reliable branches to keep me steady. Recently the rain had become too much for the soil and a landslide took the trees and rocks down with it, tilting the trunks in all sorts of unrealistic ways. Some trees lay on their sides with dead roots accusingly pointing back to me like the weather was my doing.

_Easy fellas, no need to shift blame. I hate the rain too._

Great. Now I'm internally talking to trees.

I've been alone too long.

My pants, heavy with mud, worked themselves down my frame with every step. The cold earth pressed pleasantly against my skin and cooled me. With my ass crack exposed I paused my lazy descent and pulled my pants back up to rest at a comfortable position on my hips. We were losing daylight.

Above me a trio of black birds flew in circles just below the low-flying gray storm clouds – their caws penetrated through the silence.

I held my breath and listened.

Dogmeat ate sloppily. With my gun raised I followed the sounds of smacking jaws and large, breathless bites.

A disembodied, mechanical machine ticked faintly in the background. The buzz was without a a generator, but I had no doubt that it was a compact turret. Somewhere. With untrusting eyes I searched the bleak forest in front of me and calculated every possible place a mounted, automatic bullet machine could possibly be hiding. The backdrop was gray everywhere. Gray mud. Gray trees. Gray sky. Gray fog. Gray bullshit. To realign my direction I quickened my descent and dared a whistle.

The mutt barked.

As I safely came to the level valley bottom I vaulted over a fallen tree trunk and almost landed directly on top of Dogmeat. I whirled my arms for balance and stepped around him. His muzzle buried itself into one of the open necks of an adolescent radstag. Flies clustered around its dead open eyes and bloated belly. It’s limbs stuck outright with rigor-mortis, and its tongues, white from blood loss, laid out half-buried in the mud.

“Get out of it,” I whispered as I pushed against him with my hip.

There was no bargaining with a dogs hungry belly. He lifted and replanted his feet, but kept his mouth stuck to the rotting meal in front of him. Dogmeat and I’d been rationing slices of bloatfly and agave roots for weeks, and our weight suffered because of it. His stomach acid could handle the day-old carcass. With the tree trunk at bench-height I resigned myself to resting my feet, holstered my pistol, and used a stick to scrape the thick mud from my legs.

But there it was again.

The ticking.

My feet slapped against the wet mud as I threw myself off the horizontal tree and hastily gathered Dogmeat by tugging on the collar of his harness. I pulled him away from the ragstag, certain that what killed it wasn’t a bullet or natural causes. What was in the woods? He wriggled against me, pulling all of his weight back toward his dinner. Red blood smeared his muzzle while small chunks of meat and fat speckled his face.

“No,” I quietly commanded. He swung his head around to half-heartedly gnaw on my hands, just as the bright beam of a spotlight struck the ground all around us.

Washington's Fort was a beefed up version of what Tenpenny Towers perimeter had once been. The walls were solid stone and enforced with an extra layer of rocky cement and rebar - obvious reasons for why it was so hard to spot with all the other grays. Barbed wire bordered the walls and windows. Power lines erupted from the ground and were strung together overhead with copper conduits tacked to wooden stakes. Mounted guns and automatic turrets idled beside centuries old canons. Tucked into bird houses, large movie theater lights dotted the top border of the walls and pointed their bulbs outward to flush out anything hiding in the woods. I could not hear or smell a generator, and there were no visible solar panels on the roofs or walls. If the light’s hadn’t all been turned on in response to the setting sun I’d have assumed they were for show. Despite how early in the evening it still was, the storm clouds suffocated most of the day’s remaining light. Black shadows paced the circumference between the watch towers and wall junctions, their camouflage at home with the dark ambiance. It was distressing to know I was being watched, but to have no idea by who or how many.

Dogmeat and I were directed by the spotlights handler to follow the wall back toward the river and wait at the public entrance. She’d send word to have someone meet us there.

“I’m surprised you had no trouble in there,” said the ghoul that met us. He pointed out to the forest with three fingers missing from the knuckle up. He was about my height, with large, bushy eyebrows and a thin gray beard that reminded me of the teens in Vault 101 trying on facial hair for the first time. His pot belly stayed detained under his shirt as it spilled slightly over a too-tight belt line.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“It’s where our family members go once they’re too far gone to stay in the community...” He stopped mid-sentence to shoot me an odd look. The ghoul scratched his head and drew his brows down. “You smell funny.”

_Boo yah_! Chemical-laced smokey clothes, radioactive puddles, and muddy shoes doing their thing.

He tried to make small talk. “How long have you been changing?”

“Not long.” I lied.

“I remember when I began to change. It was like puberty all over again. You’re doing it a lot more gracefully than most. Listen. We usually have protocol for ghouls and non-ghouls, but… I’m not really sure what to do with you since you’re in-between.”

“What do you do with non-ghouls?”

“Shoot’em.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. I need you to just step over here to the table while I get a runner, but we can get started while we wait. I’m going to need all of your weapons.”

The ghoul’s eyes were stuck to the lightened burn-stain of my hand as I placed my carbine on the table between us. I felt exposed and adjusted the collar around my neck to hide the textured skin as well as my dislike for handing over a lifeline. The artificial lighting was less intense inside the fort than it was outside, but I could still read the words “Employees Only” on the green, metal door behind him. The fort was a popular tourist attraction before the bombs fell.

It must have never occurred to him that wastelanders can’t function without feeling safe. For me safety was a sharp knife, loaded gun, and live grenade on stand-by. The stone fortress was an illusion for safety, nothing more. Its thick walls, secure perimeter, organized security… anything can be made to crumble if the threat knocked hard enough. Give up my weapons? No. I was going to withhold as much as I could get away with. Mentally he clocked out as soon as he thought I was one of them.

“Hey! Sandra. Can you grab the Bishop?” The ghoul shouted over his shoulder. Strange that they’d want a priests blessing to let me in, but to each their own.

At the center of the fortress was an open field that’d been committed to farming. Several people tended to the fruits and vegetables under zigzagging Christmas lights, while chickens pecked the ground for bugs and left splotches of white shit everywhere.

A woman resigned from pulling weeds out of a carrot patch and brushed her hands together. “What for?” She crooned. “I swear to Atom, if my dinner is cold by the time I get to it again because of you, I’m going to have your nutsack and feed it that ladies dog, Gael.”

“Then you can’t blame me when the lady comes after you for choking her dog on dehydrated beans. My balls haven’t worked since they saw your ugly mug!” He laughed while making a show of cupping his pants and shaking his genitals.

The farmer named Sandra fumed, got up, and charged into one of the brightly lit stone archways like she was holding a hot coal under her tongue.

Gael smirked. “Excuse my language, miss. Sometimes you have to be a little vulgar to get the job done.”

I nodded and lifted my brows. Typically I’d agree full heartedly about the use of vulgarity... but in this circumstance I really didn’t want to think about his shriveled, old, ghoul bean balls.

He made himself stand a little taller and puffed out his chest.

_At ease, solider. You've seen plenty of pretty “not ball shriveling” faces before._

I innocently laced my hands behind my back and tucked my shoulders just perfectly so for a well earned stretch, lifting the peaks of my breasts and arching them forward.

“Do you have any other weapons?” he asked stiffly through annoyed, hooded eyes.

_Damnit_. Bad timing and over-playing my sexuality too much too soon. There had to be another angle.

He screwed up his shoulders and tapped the dull tip of his finger onto the table. Carved into the wood surface there was a small depression that hinted to years of the same impulsive habit and short temper. His leg jittered underneath him with impatience.

I confronted his short temper the best way I knew how - by being persuasively annoying. With my finger pressed to my chin I shifted my poker face to that of a bubbly child.

“Have? Sure. I have plenty. I got a junk launcher that’s guarded by ferals back home. It tosses things as big as toilet seats. But I don’t recommend it. Launching toilet seats that is - they tend to boomerang. I do, however, recommend saving repurposeful ammunition by firing mirelurk eggs instead. It’s not too effective damage wise, but the snotty splat tends to make people scatter.”

I closed my fist to mime crushing mirelurk eggs and made a fart sound by pushing air between my teeth and cheeks.

“Are you trying to be stupid?”

“Who says I’m trying? It's effortless.”

He shot me a long, undecided glance and leaned over the table.

“Guns. I’m asking if you have any other guns on you right now,” Gael sneered and clenched his jagged, brown teeth together.

“Oh! Why didn't you say something sooner?” Blood rushed to my cheeks as I reached to the small of my back and surrendered Jones' pistol, laying it beside the carbine like my insides weren’t in full panic mode. My blush was the only tell sign I couldn’t turn off, so I raised my hands above my head and pretended to surrender.“Don’t shoot,” I joked.

_Can’t kill your bosses if I’m dead._

His eyes drew away from my face and fell onto my open palms and pipboy. “That it?”

“That’s the last of my guns that I’m carrying, yes.”

“Name? Profession. Reason you’re here?”

“Stu Shaw. I’m a medic. Just need a place to rest.”

The ghoul accepted the carbine and pistol and tucked them under his elbow. His voice was dry and to the point. “Great. I’ll bring these to Bishop so he can inspect them, and then send him to see you. Here’s your token for locker number 12. Just give it to whoever is on duty when you leave and you can get your guns back.”

I palmed the wooden token into the same coat pocket that held Mich’s glowing nuka-cola keychain. “You are so helpful. Is your manager here? I’d love to rave about the customer service.”

“Just go stand over there. By the gate. Under the lights so we can keep track of you. But don’t go inside. I’ll chase you out myself if you go inside,” he said and pointed the hand with the stubby fingers.

Oh yeah. Super scary.

He couldn’t catch a fish if someone baited the hook and tossed the reel for him.

“You sure? Positive customer feed back often leads to a promotion. You want a promotion, don’t you?”

“I said go!”

I made sure not to smile as I grabbed the lower, hanging tails of my backpack straps and pulled until the pack tightened around me. Dogmeat trailed off to investigate the odd, clucking animals that stalked between corn rows and mutifruit trees. Like a law-abiding citizen I moved to stand under the dull-glow of centuries old light bulbs and waited.

“- give a fuck. I have a four-day fucking migraine and you’re waking me for a random, maybe-ghoul, cunt? Is she a ghoul or not? Because you were told to kill her if she isn’t,” a gravelly, male voice shouted from the employees room. I winced on Gael’s behalf.

There was discussion between them, Gael and the Bishop, but it was too muffled to make out. For a religious man he sure had a colorful way with words.

The thin “Employee’s Only” door was fiercely flung open as the metal slammed against stone like it’d been kicked open. Instinctively I reached into my coat pocket and thumbed the knife out of Mich’s multi tool. Grasping the red handle of the knife my eyes darted to pinpoint hiding spots, shelter, and exits.

The large silhouette of a ghoul stalked to me and stopped just out of arms reach so I couldn’t mess with the gun he intentionally pointed at me - poor light flushed between harshly carved lines to wink the word “smile”.

“Nice carbine,” I grinned to bare my canines and lower my chin. I narrowed my eyes to slits and felt my heart rev-up, rallying for a fight.

“Where’d you get it?” the Bishop asked. His voice whispered harshly as he restrained his anger. Gael stood behind him, directly under a spotlight, with a look of absolute confusion and terror. Clearly, this situation has never happened to him before.

“It’s mine,” I purred.

The large ghoul stepped forward and threateningly shook the nose of the rifle in front of me as his finger hovered over the trigger. “Where. Did you get. The rifle?” He yelled. The farmers stopped grooming their crops and watched us with wide eyes.

“I found it, damnit.” Flexing my fingers I readied myself to palm the barrel away and stab straight through the hand that threatened my life.

“Where?!”

“Top of a movie theater. It was just left there. I didn’t hurt nobody to get it. It’s always been mine.”

Dogmeat practically teleported to my side at the first sign of trouble. The mutt’s hackles raised as his nose scrunched to form deep wrinkles on his muzzle, and show off the sharp points of his molars.

The ghoul stopped still and held his jaw open. His sigh was deep, long, and a little shaky. Something wasn’t right.

“Bishop?” Gael asked meekly, “Is... everything alright?”

I squinted into the dark as I tried to make out the mans outline. He slowly turned away from me and threw my carbine to Gael. I snapped my fingers to my side to keep Dogmeat from following him. What sounded like metal tags jangled as the ghoul moved away from us. Gael fumbled to catch the weapon, and it passed through his fingers to clack on the ground at his feet. He scooped the gun up by its strap and slung it over his shoulder. The Bishop mumbled something to him and nodded his head back to me. As he passed under the bright light I saw unkept red hair about the length to be expected of a ghoul without a haircut in two years. It was tucked back around the hollow of his ears, but I recognized his commanding posture and wide shoulders.

“FUCK” he shouted as he walked into the “employees only area” and slammed the door behind him.

It was Charon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. Ever write something, get mostly done, and then decide it's not what you wanted after-all and force yourself to start over? That's what happened here. So... sorry about the delay. But it was important. I also forgot to take notes about an idea around this part of the story. Hopefully it’ll come back to me, because it's was some spankin' good quality stuff. Um. Hey, everybody! Charon’s back!
> 
> I tweaked the chapter a little, since the catalyst to get her to the fortress was already in place and she was going to see Charon either way.


	20. Hello

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

I ate a cigarette to hide my shock and calm my nerves. Striking the match I curved my hand around the flame, and sucked smoke and heat into my lungs until the cigarette was lit. The nicotine tasted as stale as my welcome. Smoking had become less of a need and something I now forced myself to do to keep my fear of smoke and flame somewhat under check. It was my personal take on exposure therapy. Lost in thought I’d almost forgotten about Gael and the farmers.

“You can’t smoke here,” he said, straightening to appear big to the witnesses around him. The guard was more than happy to play the power role, but the moment things got hairy he crumbled just like everyone else. He wasn’t saving face that easily.

“Is that right?” I asked while pursing my lips and blowing a long, delicate stream into the warm, evening air. “Why’s that?”

“We’re a dry community. No smokes, no drinks, no drugs.”

I lifted my eyebrows and snorted smoke through my nose. Life was hard enough and inconvenient enough as it was, why take away a reasonable release? I bet they banned fornicating too.

“How long is the gate open for?”

“Another hour or so, why?” Gael asked while adjusting my gun’s strap on his shoulder like the weight was too much for him.

I waved the hand that clutched the cigarette and edged myself along the wall so that I stood on the other side of the medieval-style, wrought-iron gate. I had some thinking to do and needed to finish my cigarette in peace. While I was outside of the forts walls my smoke drifted through the open doorway and slapped the gatekeeper in the face.

Despite how cautionary the gated community presented itself, the place had become vibrant and busy once the roosters began to crow. Everyone was awake and with a purpose. I’d never seen so many ghoul’s in one place; and every one was at a different life stage, trapped in the same body for all eternity to show the world where and when they turned. I poured the last contents of a water bottle filled with ash and awfulness over my head and rubbed it into my face and hair. If I was going to keep up this “becoming ghoul” nonsense I’d have to make a habit of visiting the river and properly wash away all of the things that made me human.

Walking the inside perimeter of the base, I found it to be shaped like a square-star (if there was such a thing). Two of of the star’s points were recessed into the ground with stairwells that led down to shop stalls and food, including rows of picnic tables crammed so closely together they made it appear more like a large family gathering than strangers eating lunch. On the opposing side of the star the center point had a large flag mast with nothing hanging from it, and on either side of that were large colonial buildings refashioned into dorms and public services. Washington’s Fort was mostly surrounded by forest with the southern side facing the Potomac river. No wonder the crops were so green - their water supply was the cleanest the east coast had to offer. I felt a sense of indirect pride to know that I, in some way, contributed to a thriving community. Too bad it was also I who had to disturb the calm.

Dogmeat had wondered off for most of the night, but found me just before daybreak. He was was elated to weave between the crowds and take in all of the exciting new sounds and smells. I followed the dog, enjoying his joy, until he stopped at a community breakfast stall that served hot grits, grilled tats, and dry-aged links of sausage. He perked his ears tall and begged the ghoul behind the grill to share with him.

The food he was after was too rich for him. And me. There was no point buying and eating something that was going to pass through without providing nutrition. I refocused him to follow the row of food stalls, and settled for refilling my canteen, a boiled cob of corn, and a free brahmin hoof that would have been discarded otherwise.

The first bite of corn was bliss.

“Hey, you. You’re the doctor that came in last night?”

Turning my head, I searched between the faces of the many ghouls around me and finally settled on a pair of murky, brown eyes. The ghoul teenager was all knees and elbows. She wore a torn, denim dress, a blue postman’s hat, and carried a leather satchel bag diagonally over her shoulder.

I pushed partially chewed corn into the corner of my cheek and pinched it back like a squirrel storing nuts. “That obvious?” I mumbled through my half-full mouth. _I’m such an elegant broad._

The teen fiddled with her bag and pulled out a stack of letters to sort. “The dog gave it away. Um. Ike and Diamond want to talk to you.”

“Right now? Who are they?”

“They didn’t say ‘right now’, but I’d go right now if I were you. They’re in charge of the place.”

_No way could identifying the twins be this easy._

I swallowed my food. “Where?”

“That building over there. If you go through the front door between the white columns, there are signs in the hall that point to all kinds of places. Just follow “administration”. They’re on the second floor somewhere on the left,” she rasped. She checked the tarnished, silver watch that hung loosely around her wrist.

Thanking her, I finished my breakfast and gave Dogmeat his. The raw hoof would preoccupy him for hours.

My spirit felt slightly lighter knowing Charon wasn’t in charge of the base, but slightly heavier knowing that someone else was in charge of him. I crossed the farm fields and came up to the first building nearest to the forts entryway. Inside the wood floors were gray and warped from time and miss use. It certainly did not have the shiny, exuberant introduction that Tenpenny Tower had, but was charming in its own right. Every step I made inspired a symphony of creaks and groans from the floor. I adjusted my backpack and worked out the best way to carry myself so that my entry was mostly soundless. _Like a ghost moving through the building._ The signs pinned to the walls were cast iron black with gold painted letters. I followed them to the stairs, creaked the first step, shifted my pack again, and then glided up to the open doorway of the main office on the second floor.

The room was a _lovely_ contrast of dark-red, splintering paint and _even lovelier_ shedding, ivory-yellow wall paper. The windows were vacant of glass panels so that the morning breeze filtered through and lifted sheer, flower-patterned curtains. On either side of the room was a dark, mahogany desk that faced the center, and standing between them, directly in front of me, was Charon. I locked eyes with him so that we could share how good we were about appearing indifferent. He looked mostly the same as he always did, with his high cheek bones and swoon-worthy broad shoulders, but his resting bitch face was so bad it would have stripped the scales off of a nightstalker.

Beside him a woman, who I assumed was Diamond, gathered a small box of hand-gun ammunition and empty magazines, and placed the box on one of the desks alongside a black pistol. “Fill these. Sort that. And when you’re done, I want you to grill Gael again. Get the full story. It’s hard to believe a doctor could be that stupid,” she said.

She twitched when she finally took notice of me, and looked accusingly to Charon.

“Bishop! Why didn’t you say anything?” she barked. Her round face adorned sharp features and ended with a pointed chin that suggested she became a ghoul somewhere in her 30’s. Black, sparse hair wrapped around her head and was pulled back to a braid that barely qualified.

He and I communicated wordlessly. I quirked an eyebrow. _It’s like that, huh?_

His shrug was minuscule.

Calm down. Don’t act so excited to see me, big guy. _People will talk._

Impulsively I looked at his dog tags. _Where’s your ring, Charon?_ I didn’t ask out loud a question I already knew the answer to - it wasn’t with him, and that was all that mattered. Despite the amount of time that’d passed between us I obsessed in a way that was expected of a woman with little-to-no social interaction. The distant memory of being with him in the museum was still fresh, and my heart pounded because of it.

“Thank you for coming. Please, sit. My brother will be here momentarily,” she said.

“I prefer to stand, but thanks.”

Diamond’s mouth lifted to form a fake smile as her eyes remained neutral. “We don’t bite.”

Somewhere down the hall a door squeaked open. Dry, rubber wheels rolled along the hall as an elderly ghoul pushed himself without aid. His skin was dark and flaky like he’d been out in the sun too long. I wondered how he managed to get onto the second floor in the first place.

I stepped back to let the older ghoul pass through the doorway I jammed, then denied Diamond a second time. “I... just prefer standing.”

“We’ve a few residents here who feel the same,” he said while motioning toward Charon. His voice wasn’t quite as raspy as everyone else’s and seemed more like he’d just woken. Maybe he had. He rolled up to one of the vacant desks and shifted in his chair. “Safety is a rare commodity these days. Especially with the way us ghouls are treated. I’m Ike, and this is my sister, Diamond. Now. What’s brought you to our little community?”

Charon dutifully kept his eyes on me, and I stupidly returned the gaze because he’s what I wanted to look at. Ike cleared his throat. “Don’t worry about him. He can’t hurt you unless we tell him to.”

_Is that a threat?_

“I understand you didn’t have the most pleasant of registrations last night, Ms... Shaw, was it?”

“Shae, actually.”

Diamond was on the defensive. “Gael said you said ‘Shaw’. Are you accusing our guard of being daft?”

“No, I’m saying I lied.” I said. And my eyes were back on Charon, because I’m an idiot. He idly pushed brass rounds of bullets into one of the magazines with the same amount of nonchalance as a grandmother knitting a scarf.

“Why’s that?” Ike asked. A dry, rough cough burst from him and tortured his lungs until his face turned red. Diamond crossed the room and offered a tin mug of water. There was a distinct age gap between the two of them - the twins must have been on the run together for at least thirty years before he began his own ghoulification.

With an unsteady hand Ike took the cup and sipped off the top. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Why’s that? Please, give an old man like me a break and sit down.”

Bunching my lips to one side of my mouth in a half-frown I pulled my backpack off my shoulders and sat it down on the floor in front of his desk, then took possession of the solitary chair there. I could still see the open doorway if I turned my head. I politely crossed my legs and leaned forward a little to appear small. The first half of every fight is disarming an opponent enough to have them believe something isn’t a threat when it really is. Neither of them openly wore Charon’s contract, which meant there was hope that he wasn’t actually owned by anyone. Depending on how things went maybe I didn’t have to kill anyone after all. Existing where slavers couldn’t find me felt too much like a fairytale.

“I was scared.”

“What were you scared of?” Diamond leaked irritation as she rested her hand on her brothers shoulder.

Reminding myself that this wasn’t a simple job interview, I talked out of my ass to prevent them from shooting it. Suddenly, feral company seemed preferable.

“Being human or ghoul is a sliding scale and I don’t know what stage I’m at. With guidelines like “shoot on sight”, I was scared to use my real name just in case someone knew me as human. People like you and I, Ike, are trapped not belonging to either group.”

Okay, sort of true. I run better with ghouls than I do humans, which puts me in the middle. Charon needed to hurry up and advert his gaze because he was bearing holes into my back.

Ike nodded. “I apologize for the hostility. We’re all a little on edge since a recent disagreement with a traveling doctor. As it turned out he was giving information about our little... community to our enemies. Take it from me, never trust a man who runs his mouth. He’ll run it to everyone.”

He must have been referring to Doctor Hoff, which explained the rough shape he was in a few days ago.

Diamond wasn’t sold. “Your timing is suspicious and you act too much like a soldier. How do we even know you’re a doctor? Or that you know anything about ghoul health?”

I act like a solider? Gee. I wonder who’s fault that is.

“Fair question. I’m a survivalist first and a medic second - no military background. I think it goes without saying, but... ghouls are still human. Everything is the same except for the rare occasion there’s a condition that isn’t in a text book.”

“Such as?”

“How radiation affects the body. Past research says we should all be dead and yet here we are with eternity to figure it out. Standards have to be higher when treating ghouls due to the very nature of what we are. There’s more risk for infection, damaged cartilage, and limb loss. We also have to carefully consider how everyone is afflicted differently. Nerves can stop working without any explanation why - a brain can turn off everything ‘social’ and maintain just primal instincts. I may be walking in the middle, but I have more experience treating ghouls than I do humans.”

I looked to Diamond and flashed a warm, convincing smile. “I used to live in Tenpenny Tower. If we had leadership like yours, maybe things would have gone differently for us. You both really seem to know what you’re doing, and I admire that.”

She reacted exactly as I thought she would and subconsciously returned my grin. If a person couldn’t be bought by any other means... compliment them. Vanity is a powerful master. Ike rested his hand over his sisters and looked to her before he presented their offer.

“We’ve spoken to our guards about how they conducted themselves last night, and assure you they will be more agreeable from here on out. The fort needs someone in the infirmary and we are prepared to harbor you so long as you agree to follow our rules and treat people without discrimination.” Ike looked to Charon. “Bishop? Before we wrap this up, what’re your thoughts?”

I turned my head to listen, but not so much that I could see him in my peripheral vision.

“No comment,” he said pointedly. He slammed a fresh case of ammunition into Diamond’s hand gun and cleared it of malfunctions by pulling the slider back. He returned it to her desk. “Your pistol is ready. I’ll be talking to Gael now.”

“Hold on.” Diamond stopped him and was rewarded with prickly silence. “What do you say, Shae?”

Pushing my chair back, I took possession of my backpack and threw it over my shoulder. “I want a trial run. Give me a few days to think it over. I’m not saying ‘no’, but I’m not saying ‘yes’ either.”

Ike nodded. “We understand. A busy place like this is quite the commitment. Bishop. Please show her where she’ll be working and make sure she gets settled. Perhaps she can help you?”

Charon grunted and jerked his head to the side as if he was telling me to get moving. I gave a curt wave to the twins and followed him out the door.

Like a begrudging prisoner on parole, he unlocked the door to the infirmary and swung the rickety, wooden door open. He flicked on the harsh, fluorescent light and held the door open for me. The room was windowless and had been undisturbed for so long it reeked of dust and moth balls. I bit the inside of my cheek and stiffened. Tension electrified the air and rippled between us. I shuffled by him and placed my backpack on top of a small dresser that had drawers irregularly pushed-in as far as they would go. The drawers were filled with linens and towels. Opening my pack, I grabbed my canteen, took a swig of cold water, and braced for impact.

“I take it he’s the one who tries the witches and she’s the one who burns them?” I joked.

“You admire them? Really?” Charon mocked.

“I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“Do you shit normally or are you just filled with it? I’ll stay until an appropriate time has passed, then I’m leaving.”

He closed the door behind himself and moved toward me. Too close. A power play. I drifted backward and sat on the single, twin-sized, sheet-bare bed. The toes of my shoes scraped against the tiled floor.

“A little early in your relationship with them to be nitpicking your commands, aren’t you? Why don’t you tell me about your migraines?”

The large ghoul squinted his eyes, but didn’t react quickly enough to hide his surprise. _That’s right, I heard you yelling at the gate keeper._

“For how long do you say it normally lasts and how frequently do you get them? Does it start behind your eyes, your frontal lobes, or somewhere else?” I asked.

“Don’t talk to me like you give a damn.”

“I’m not. Like you, I’m just playing a role. Have you tried taking med-x at the first symptom?“

“Fuck you.”

“Migraines aren’t like you.”

I cocked my head up to meet his gaze as he moved again and towered over me. He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked around the small, suffocating room, observing the odd way my pack laid open with the ring and pin of a grenade peaking out of its top. If he looked closely enough inside he’d discover it was mostly filled with his old things - things that survived the fire because they were in the courtyard instead of the tower.

Let him draw his own conclusions.

“You don’t know what I’m like,” he said.

“When you lay down with Ike do you like to be the big or the small spoon?”

“Eat shit,” he grated, but behind the thick venom veil his voice hid a smile. He shook his head as if sass was unexpected.

I shrugged. “Did Dogmeat find you last night?”

The ghoul shifted his gaze and looked at me from the corner of his eye.

“He did? I wondered where he went. Did he do his back-and-forth running happy and biting the air thing?”

Charon nodded, his chest expanding and contracting as he drew in deep, slow breaths. For a moment I thought our lungs shared a timer. His aroma of minty gun solvent curled itself around my brain like it was gift wrapped just for me.

He acted quickly, grabbing my throat and squeaking out a gasp from me. His palm covered my neck as his long fingers curled from ear to ear; he manipulated me like I was one of the fashion display mannequins in a Super Duper mart by carefully tilting my head left, then right. He looked at my burn scars, confused, then did something I hadn’t expected at all.

He kissed me.

The kiss was forced and feelingless, but in that single action he was able to determine what it was that’d been bugging him.

“You’re not turning. I can practically taste the human on you,” Charon sneered.

I snapped back. “Then try asking consent next time. Not getting bit by ferals has been one hell of a learning curve. I don’t suppose you’re as impulsive as them that I need to douse myself in piss to get you to screw off?”

The bodyguard stepped back to lean against the tiled wall and cross his arms over his chest. I held where his lips had been and felt my pulse pound against my fingertips.

“Is that how you did it? To sneak in? Why’re you here, Shae?”

Just my luck. Telling the truth gets me killed. Lying gets me killed. Going home gets me killed. No matter what I do I’m dead. I looked to the mostly vacant medicine cabinet and starred beyond the glass doors. There wasn’t enough med-x and mentats for a trippy cocktail, let alone a suicide.

“Answer me,” he spat.

My voice was too quiet. Where was the confident woman who got an adrenaline rush from her own gun in her face?

“Don’t take it so personally,” I said. “It’s what I’ve been doing since... ever since the slavers hit Tenpenny. Jones is everywhere, and he’s not too happy with what I did. And no, before you jump to conclusions, this isn’t about the behemoth. When I got home I was too focused on cutting ties and getting high. I - Dogmeat, Mitch, and I defended the tower.”

As if embracing my scars could erase the memory, I soothingly hugged myself and tried to talk without invoking my own anxiety. I breathed through parted lips. But the dread had already slammed itself into my heart to aggressively pump through my body via blood stream. There was no stopping it, and quickly enough the dread had all of me. My breaths were fast and short as my organs flopped in my stomach and traded places. The sense of panic and flight pushed my head underneath a smokey surface. I felt like I was having a heart attack.

_I’m dying._

I am safe. There is no fire.

_I’m not here._

“What happened?” Charon’s voice was disconnected from my current reality.

I forced myself to reply. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What’d they do?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think I deserve an explanation. You don’t have one. Do you? You’re always lying. Do you ever stop?”

“Just stop. Please... please. Could you just stop for a moment?”

Breathe in.

_I’m not dying._

Breathe out.

I hugged myself tighter and screwed my eyes shut. The voice that my throat produced must have belonged to someone else. It was meek, unsteady, and filled with remorse.

“You never really notice slavers until you _really notice_ them, then they’re everywhere.” I whispered. “And it sucks. It really fucking sucks. I’m lucky Jones didn’t open my contract with the Talon Company, because they were the only ones willing to give me their scraps. It took weeks to get to Underworld, but... by then you were gone. Smelling different for the ferals has just been easier and safer than living above ground. I... I’m tired of being tired, Charon. I really am. By coming here I was hoping to accomplish something, wipe my slate clean, and go home. I had no idea how to find you or... that you’d be here.”

He received my confession just as the figuratively smoke-filled room began to clear. I swam to the surface. I wished I hadn’t said anything.

The bodyguard crossed the room, paused to pluck the grenade from my pack and pocket it, and opened the door. “I won’t say anything,” he said. “But in the next few days you need to be gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Washington’s Fort is a real place south of the Bethesda building and Capitol. In the last two chapters I tried really hard to describe its outlay with as few words as possible (because dialog had to go and hog everything), but if you’re curious of what it actually looks like you can google it. It’s pretty stinkin’ cute.
> 
> So... another update? So soon? How’d this happen? A gentle reminder that every chapter is a draft that is edited and proofed by just yours truly. If you see a mistake or have a question, you’d be doing me such a big favor by letting me know. Also. If you haven’t noticed yet... I’m done filtering out bad words, because it feels so unnatural without them. I’m just going to spread vulgarity like confetti now. Enjoy!


	21. - Intermission

Okay.  
  
It's halfway through the week and I know it. You know it. We all know it. I'm not going to have an update ready anytime soon. Heck. I haven't even started the next chapter beyond the bullet points. But! What I do have is some fanart.

Now, listen up! I've been outside of the art community for so long I had to register a Deviantart account just to share this. So, here's a bribe to keep you all happy until I get around to the next chapter. Shoot me a kudos or a comment if you'd like to see more Fallout art -OR- tell me off for getting your hopes up and shame me away from ever drawing again. TBH I'm just happy you're here.  
  
Anyhoosies. Here's a Charon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With his high cheekbones and resting bitch face.


	22. Overdose

**Disclaimer**: Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

_With my eyes pointed to the ceiling and unseeing, I looked vacantly up at the shimmering lights that pierced through thick glass and waves of clean water. Somewhere, deep inside the Jefferson Memorial, hundreds of thousands of gallons of water moved through the filtration system to be violently regurgitated back out into the river. Project Purity’s engine revved with so much life that the entire building softly vibrated to rival a minor earth quake. Our bodies, slick with dew, laid still for hours on the uncomfortable control room floor._

_As I become one with the cold dampness my jaw chattered and frantically clacked my teeth together - the first sign of impending hypothermia. I shivered and hugged my arms around myself. Wet goose pimples on my forearms kissed my fingertips as I rubbed them up to my biceps to try and heat myself with friction. With the back of my head rested on Charon’s wide ribcage, I turned onto my side and curled in on myself to press my ear to his quiet heart and look up at this vacant face._

_“Charon... I’m cold. I can’t - I can’t stay, big guy,” I whispered._

_Saying it out loud made it all the more real. As the radiation purge finalized, the dividing door between the stairs and control room released its magnetic lock and swung open like an eerie invitation. I was terrified of what I’d find. Strength left Charon’s body all at once and he collapsed to the floor without putting so much as a hand out to stop his decent. I recoiled when his skull slammed against the computer panel. His limbs twitched and breaths sighed erratic and sporadic. If I was as solid as the machine that harbored us I could have breathed into his lungs and palpitated his chest for an eternity. A half-empty bag of Rad-Away hung above us with its loop tethered to a handle on the control panel. A long section of hose connected him and the orange medicine to led it down into his arm. The ghouls pulse could not be traced, his eyes did not respond to light, and as far as I could tell his lungs were not taking in new oxygen. And yet, I waited._

_The joints in my fingers and wrist stung as I reached out and sluggishly closed my small hand around his free one. I pulled his palm to my cheek and pressed it close. For the first time since we’d known each other and I began playing my stupid games... he felt cold to me. Charon was never colder than me. I sniffled._

_My cracking voice mumbled an apology. Soberly, I wished for my father. I didn’t wish for him so that he could prove how much better of a doctor he was than me, there was nothing else to be done, but because no person ever truly ages out of needing the special sort of comfort that only a parent knows how to give._

_The sharp grooves of the mesh floor underneath me felt uncomfortably deep as it bore into my arm and thigh. My numb back tingled as my nerves reawakened. I tried to sniff back the chilly snot that dribbled down my nose and saturated his leather armor. Another set of oily, radioactive-gritty tears pooled from my tear ducts and blurred my vision. I was too exhausted to afford a decent cry_.

_An emotional contradiction scratched itself inside of my skull. I felt grimy and dim witted. As if, by being his employer, I had every right to be pissed off that he was sprawled out dead on the floor before he had the official okay to clock out._

_‘You ain’t shit yourself. You dead or not? Because I need to know.’_

_I can’t do this alone._

_Please._

_Don’t leave me alone._

Pungent, brown water splashed onto the floor, hit three of the infirmaries four walls, and changed direction mid flow to congregate back towards me. I slapped the mop down and worked in small figure-eights to lift dirt from the tall-tale signs of neglect and naive foot traffic.

_Mmm_. Chemically, lemony fresh.

The deep, utility sink with running water was the rooms best feature. And that was saying a lot. By any other description I’d have guessed it to be a closet. The infirmary hadn’t properly operated in decades. The steel, medical utensil set was incomplete. Medicine was scarce or expired. And all of the linens were stained with blood or worse. Worst of all, there were no notes from a previous doctor to know which patients to follow-up with, watch out for, or expect regularly.

Charon’s actions had contradicted his verbal demand that I leave, and an enthusiastic grin permanently stretched itself over my face as I re-lived his kiss. I didn’t mean what I said about his needing consent. He could hog tie me, slap me on the ass, and... Fuck. I needed a cold shower and a tall glass of bourbon. I must be ovulating. Dogmeat laid just outside of the door with his belly pressed to the cool, wooden floor. He stopped panting.

Three sets of feet with an uneven weight distribution hurriedly pounded down the hallway as wooden floor boards yelped and announced their arrival. The canine walked parallel to the open doorway and welcomed them with a quick sniff. He eagerly scrambled to the side of the hall once he saw they weren’t there to give him head pats and make smoochie faces.

A female ghoul with a shaved head and yellow bandana around her neck was the first to step through the doorway and enter the clean-ish infirmary. Braced in her arm was a male who struggled to keep his footing right while frothy saliva dribbled down his chin. On his other side was another ghoul, about the height and weight of an average eleven year old, with mature eyes and calculated stare. He looked familiar. All of them wore wet clothes as if they’d been splashing and playing in rain puddles.

“Are you the doctor? We heard someone came last night. Are you her? Help us, please,” she sputtered while she adjusted the weight of the man hanging on her shoulder. “I-I don’t know what happened. He fell off a ladder and talked about hip pain. We tried to help. And, and —“

I interrupted. “Get him on the bed.”

Together they shuffled into the cramped space and tried to raise him onto the brown-stained mattress, but the ghouls right leg dragged uselessly underneath him while his left foot skipped without enough coordination to keep himself balanced. Somehow he still had enough awareness to try and limp. The whites of his eyes were yellowish, while his pupils expanded so widely they compacted his amber irises to form skinny rings. He clenched his teeth.

Leaning the mop to the corner, I quickly moved to them and wrapped both of my arms around his knees. What he really needed was a splint to stop his hip from rotating, but there was no time for that.

“We lift in 1. 2. 3.”

The ghoul howled as we hefted together and placed him onto the stiff bed. The springs in the mattress crumpled under his weight and groaned from having been disturbed twice in one day. Gauging his vitals, I pressed my hand to the ghouls throat and clocked the seconds on my Pip-Boy. His pulse leapt faster than an automatic machine gun spitting .50 caliber bullets. Despite how cold he was to the touch, his skin was slick with sweat. His body went rigid as his head leaned so far back that his neck and shoulders lifted from the bed. Another swath of bubbly saliva flowed out from around his clenched teeth. The ghoul was about to seize.

“What’d he take for pain?”

The boyish ghoul spoke. “Nothing. We don’t have drugs.”

“Bullshit. Did he land on his head?”

They were silent.

“No? Then that means he’s overdosing. He’s got inter-cranial inflammation and the pressure will push his brain through to his spine if we don’t counter act it. What drugs?” I snapped.

The two froze and looked between themselves, the ghoul on the mattress, and me as if the answer had some sort of consequence. I hoped to hell it didn’t.

My voice softened. “Please. I won’t tell anyone. What happened?”

The woman blew air out of her cheeks and uneasily held the shape of a bottle outside of her overalls pocket, as if by concealing it in her hand she could continue to keep the secret. “Buffout,” she said. “I keep it for work — for when the laundry crew’s joints hurt. The washing machines break a lot and we have to pull sopping, wet clothes out of them to wring by hand and hang. There’s a lot of it and it’s hard work.”

“How much?”

“Eight.”

_Shit_. How he wasn’t dead yet was a mystery. Years ago I worked out that a ghoul Charon’s size could take up to five pills and be relatively okay, but even then his body overheated and went into overdrive to try and stabilize itself. I recalled how he responded when I cleared his lung. The ghoul on the doctors bed was easily seventy pounds less than him.

Filled with remorse, the woman reached out and stroked her dying friends forehead.

“Don’t touch his face. He’ll take your fingers off. If you want to help, roll him forward onto his good side and make sure he doesn’t fall off the bed.” I said peacefully while running my fingers through my dreadlocks and pinning them back into a thick ponytail.

In three hasty steps I was across the room and pulling items out of my backpack looking for my Jet inhaler. The ghoul needed a sedating drug to counteract the adrenaline. From my pack I removed and dropped a blanket, spare clothes, several grenades, two shots of psycho, a kitchen knife with a cardboard sheath, and a pack of cigarettes. The items pooled around my feet like a morbid, disorganized shop in Rivet City’s market. There was still plenty of good I could do for this world, even if it meant using unethical measures to get there.

As my fingernails scrapped canvas my hand closed around a cold, metal cylinder. The man vomited. Chunks of soft bread and bile-saturated cheese spilled onto the bed and over the edge, splashing onto the freshly cleaned floor. A small, partially dissolved white pill stuck to the edge of his torn bottom lip.

Without moving my eyes to him or the other ghouls, I began to deconstruct the Jet inhaler to separate the delivery device from the bright-orange canister that housed the chemical. There was no way he had enough control to accept the drug orally.

“Pat his back if he needs it. Make sure he doesn’t choke,” I said.

The room, suffocated with the haze of uneasy quiet, was interrupted once more with labored breathing. Despite how awful his quick, rattling breaths sounded - he was still breathing. Breathing was good. I worked faster. I took hold of one of the psycho vials and tore it all-a-bit recklessly from its syringe, then pushed the Jet canister into the Psycho drug-delivering contraption until it clicked. Tilting the drug so that the sharp needle pointed downward, I squeezed the medical device’s forceps so that cool liquid condensed at the bottom and poured through the needle without bubbles. The swap between the two drugs was so easy it was no wonder why so many married the two to the same syringe. I got shivers just thinking about it.

“I need your bandana,” I said to the woman as I sterilized the needle with the pathetic flame from my cigarette lighter. I clenched the drug dispenser between my teeth away from the hot metal and waited for her to untie her fashion statement and hand it to me.

I shifted my weight onto the mattress and stuck my knee directly into the ghouls vomit to lean over him. The bandana wrapped easily around his bicep, just above the elbow, and held a knot strong enough to slow the stream of blood entering or exiting the limb. As his veins surged with excess blood, they sprang and pronounced themselves easy to find underneath his leathery, thick skin. His elbows were chafed, peeling, dry, and irritated from radiation damage and not enough moisture.

Reaching behind myself, I grabbed onto the boy and pushed him forward. I grabbed his hands and placed one above and one below the mans elbow, then closed my hands over his fingers to show him how tight to hold on. I tried to speak around the Jet canister that was secured between my teeth, but my words were clumsy and came out as “Haph mmm hole,” instead of “Help me hold.”

My instincts were right.

The ghoul curled sideways and partially levitated his top half and good heel off the mattress. The woman wailed and pushed down on his shoulder as the boy successfully held his arm tightly enough to keep him from wriggling.

With my own dizzy head and marathon-running heartbeat, I gently plunged the drugs needle shallowly into the fattest vein I could find. The needle as it pierced through his thick skin sounded obscene, like a zit yielding to pressure until it pops. I dispensed the drug and released him once the timing felt right. There were no medical certainties when it came to ghouls. I counted to five, then removed the bandana and waited for the diluted drug to make its way north. Following my lead, the other two ghouls stepped away from him. Together we waited.

The only living being not holding their breath was Dogmeat, who welcomed himself into the infirmary to help clean the vomit. His speckled tongue slurped and rolled acidic awfulness into his mouth, taking extra care to get all the cheese chunks he could before I noticed.

“Gross. Dog. No. Stop!” I pushed myself off the mattress and skipped around the woman. Grabbing the mutt by his harness I escorted him outside of the room and shut the door.

Tension left the overdosing ghouls body in one powerful wave as his blood-shot eyes blinked closed. Slowly he brought his head to the mattress and sunk his body deep into the springs. He sighed as his breathing returned to normal. Returning to his side I pressed two fingers into his neck, just below his jaw, to count the beats. The Jet worked beautifully and his heart had returned back to an acceptable rate of pumping blood and getting on with things.

So overcome with relief, the woman sat down on the floor and looked on with a face that was partially a smile, partially a grimace. It was as if the great weight was leaving her body, not his. “Thank you,” she said. “How long until he’s good?”

“Let him rest overnight. I’ll see in the morning if there’s any sort of long term damage, then talk to family members about next steps. He’s going to want to eat when he wakes, and I don’t know the layout of this place well enough. Would one of you mind going out and bringing food and water for when he wakes?”

“I’ll do it,” the woman nodded.

“Good work bringing him as quickly as you did,” I said, “Ten more minutes and he probably wouldn’t have made it.”

The boy awkwardly rested his hand on the small of my back and sucked wind between his teeth. “Since we’re here. I banged my head about three days ago and my ear’s been ringing. Do you think my hearing’s going?”

“Is it still ringing?” I asked while dangerously squinting my eyes into slits. My smile vanished as my lips formed a thin line that challenged him to a fight. The uninvited contact was unsettling. And unwanted. And about to get un-pretty. _Six feet back or six feet deep, asshole._

“Off and on,” he shrugged.

“That’s tinnitus. You’ve experienced it before if you’ve ever been slapped. Reduce your stress for a few days, and try to avoid loud noises or unnecessary trauma.” My veiled threat sailed, strong and true, directly from my mouth and impaled him in the chest. He recoiled quickly and transitioned his hand to run through his patchy hair like he was playing off how cool he was. His rejected arm fell to his side.

The ghoul on the mattress coughed and winced. “You...” his voice was quiet and unsteady from the leftovers of his drug high and physical exhaustion. I leaned over him to listen while minding his bad hip, which had likely popped out and would need additional care. “You smell really... really good. I could bite a hunk out of you.”

Oh, fuck no. You better not.

I stepped back as I became critically aware of how much I was perspiring and how long it’d been since my last bath. Was he feral? Partially feral? Was there such a thing? Earlier I’d pulled the sliding-scale ghoul thing out of my ass, but there was some truth to the hypothesis. What did he mean by bite a hunk out of me?

“What’s that mean?” I accusingly asked the two sober ghouls in the room.

The boy scrunched his nose and lifted one eyebrow - a look that showed off his true age, and not the age of an adolescent. He appeared to be gloating. “What he’s saying is that you smell human.”

I scoffed. “And that’s bad?”

“It is when most of the people here haven’t talked to a human in years. They’re out of practice ignoring the things that ferals can’t ignore. Like how much they like the smell of fresh meat. That’s how we lost the last doctor. Poor guy came in smelling like dinner and was attacked by one of our mechanics. People frenzied. You’ve seen the hive mind. One of his body guards became the main course. But it turns out they were all rats anyway, so no one really got in trouble,” he shrugged like the information wasn’t as awful as it sounded. Or perhaps it was a basic part of ghoulification that they all experienced and considered common knowledge.

No wonder Charon wanted me out.

“Are you really one of us?” The woman asked.

“I’m working on it,” I said. I looked her up and down. She had a similar body type to me with a little less muscle on her bones. “What size do you wear?”

“Whatever fits. Why?”

“I’m not telling you what to do or what not to do, and I’m not going to mention the Buffout to anyone. But... one pill for about every 50 pounds a ghoul weighs. More than that and you’ll end up here again. You can pay me back by bringing me a dirty set of clothes every two days.”

The boy laughed, his voice box squeaking from a permanently under-developed adams apple. “Dirty clothes? What do you want with her dirty clothes?”

“I don’t have a lot to wear and she has good taste.”

The woman grinned a set of pearly, fake teeth and reached her hand up to shake on a good deal. “I’m Doll, this is Average Joe, and that’s Beau on the bed. Pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”

According to the few brochures left in the guest shop, just before the war Fort Washington had extensive renovations implemented throughout its layout. Among those improvements they built gendered locker rooms underground for employees to store their personal effects and shower after a long day of civil era re-enactments, firing cannons, and muzzle-loading lessons for guests who paid membership fees. But the showers weren’t gendered. The locker rooms connected to a single big square of semi-functional shower heads and plastic benches so old the non-slip texture they’d been painted with to prevent fat, soapy, sloppy, wet asses from sliding had worn down to a dangerously smooth surface. Random patches of bare cement proudly displayed where tiles had unpredictably popped off years ago and were never replaced. The only light source came from a single, overhead window that was propped open with a large rock. Warm steam from the showers snaked through the window’s crack toward the forest while cold air rushed inside to replace it. Several ghouls were already showering. Some of them spoke to one another, made jokes, and reminisced about “that one time”, while others bathed privately and left without so much as a “see you later”. I bit back inappropriate jokes about saggy breasts and frog legs that were more likely to make me dead then make me friends.

_Fuck it._

I deserved a warm shower, but couldn’t risk triggering a feeding frenzy. I also didn’t want to bathe in the freezing cold river and be put on trial for another one of Gale’s “gate watch exams” so soon after pissing him off. Politely I sat myself down on one of the worn benches with my rolled towel pinned between me and the wall. With the blade of Mich’s utility knife already drawn, I placed myself into a feral-territory mindset and hid the knife on my lap underneath Doll’s wrinkled pink dress and soft, yellow sweater. I was small, invisible, and starred at the floor while I patiently waited for my turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note about Fallout ghouls... I'm making a lot of it up and will not be offended if you like an idea and want to use it yourself. Good writing is a team effort.  
A big thanks to everyone who’s been subscribing, bookmarking, kudos-in and following!! Things are about to pick up, get stabby, get sexy, and then probably more sexy, and then scary, and then off to the finale! :D


	23. Friendly Fire

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

The next few days were a whirlwind of appointments, no shows, emergencies, and trying to stay cognizant. No one had a sufficient amount of caps to properly pay me and most were too embarrassed or proud to admit how they came to the infirmary in the first place. Desperate patients who kept secrets were the type who allowed me to keep secrets of my own. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying myself. Every exchange ended with a handshake and an unspoken agreement - ‘I won’t ask you questions if you don’t ask me’. Bartering was a thrill. The drug supply in the medicine cabinet doubled, fly eggs were on the way to breed sterile maggots, every meal for the next week was accounted for, and a sneaky few agreed to distill me a vat of alcohol for “medicinal” purposes. Mental health is medicinal, after all. Working and sleeping inside the small infirmary was becoming a habit so grotesque I’d soon forget what the sun looked like. Food was swallowed more than chewed and I took my baths hovering over the utility sink. My good fortune of not being bitten relied on Dolls dirty clothes and a mostly empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Agreeing to kill Diamond and Ike to escape Jones’ wrath was quickly becoming a thing of the past. I had no reason to leave, nor did I want to.

Laying on the clean tile floor I admired the back-lit cracks in the rickety infirmary door. My conditioning while on the run ruined beds for me. Enemies shot at beds in the dark, not at floors, and the few seconds I had of not being dead was all the time I needed to make the enemy deader. My body yearned for a daytime nap to dodge inevitably misdiagnosing some poor asshole with cock rot.

Someone paced in the hallway. Every few steps the floorboards would creak, the pacer would pause, and then go back to having their heels take the floor like they were barking orders. The noise could have been therapeutic if I wasn’t trying so damn hard to sleep. The boots eventually stopped and eclipsed the light that filtered through the door. Creaking my eyes open I leaned up onto my elbows and waited for the door handle to turn. The door did not open. Instead a small object was laid down beside the boots and pushed under the door’s crack. The object sailed toward me and hit my knee. The boots walked down the hall again, but this time did not return.

Sitting upright I leaned into my legs and plucked the object from the floor. The plastic was warm from being held in a hand for too long. In the darkness it was hard at first to tell exactly what it was I was holding. There were two round disks with pinpricked edges and arms that unfolded. I opened the arms as far as they would allow, inspected the object in the dark light, and then slipped on the sun-faded pair of Nuka-Cola glasses. Still adjusted to my fit the frames hugged perfectly and blocked the remaining daylight.

Once again my short-term plans of resting fell victim to an another interruption. Footfalls, smaller than the previous pair, came to the door. Instinctively I reached for the pistol I didn’t have. My heart stalled. My foggy brain reminded me where I was. That’s right. Washingtons Fort. Infirmary. I must’ve just fallen asleep.

“Yeah?”

A disembodied voice spoke on the other side of the door. “They’re sending a group north to one of the silos to fix a radio. Bishop asked for medical support. Everyone’s waiting at the gate.”

I grumbled. “What time?”

“Now,” said the voice.

“What time is now?”

“4:10 pm.”

_Damn_. “Okay. I’m up.”

Moving with intent and impatience, my uncooperative backpack was convinced to let go of all of my things with a few punches and a rough shake. I abandoned my belongings on the bed and in there place went the essentials that helped control pain and stop bleeding. The canvas fabric sagged pitifully when I put it on, and drummed against my lower back as I moved through the Fort. At the gate Gael kindly exchanged the wooden token and returned just my pistol. I blew him a snide kiss. I tucked the small gun into my jacket pocket and prayed to Atom that it stayed there. Just a few steps away a group of prepared ghouls talked about how much the weather turned, how they looked forward to the impending rad storm, and how it was “sure to be a doozy”. Charon stood with his arms across his chest like he was two laughs away from punching someone. I joined the team and straightened Doll’s dress, then lifted my jackets zipper to my neck to block out the cold. Like a predator one of the men starred at my exposed legs while spreading his own feet wide apart. All of the reasons for why pants are superior were adding up.

“Who’s the skirt?” the predator asked. He licked his lips as if that ever actually worked as a good pick-up. He reminded me of the oily, fat layer on top of a block of rotting cram that everyone scrapes off for the compost bucket.

“The skirt is the one who’ll let you bleed out if you piss her off,” I hummed.

His face lit up to the challenge. “Skirts got teeth. Are you a fighter too? Please say ‘yes’.”

“Why, ‘yes’. As a medic I don’t need to be big and strong, like you, to know exactly what breaks and how. I can snap your dick off if you’d like a demonstration?”

“You have a lot of practice touching dicks?”

“That’s enough!” Charon growled dangerously. “We’re waiting for Winthrop and then we’re going. Nobody talks to her. Got that?”

The prickly silence that followed was delicious. I eyed my compliments to the chef and nodded to thank him for the glasses. His face was dead pan.

_Wait_.

Winthrop?

Turning away from the men I searched the crowd. One ghoul stood out from the others by confidently brandishing blue hair and an aggressive looking tool belt. The mechanic, distracted by a small book in his hands, walked through the gate and stopped right beside me without looking up. He must have been on autopilot.

I playfully pressed my hand to his shoulder and shoved him to the side. Forced to snap his book shut, Winthrop’s feet stumbled while his body twisted in the opposite direction. “What the hell is wrong with you!” The mechanic jeered over his shoulder.

I mischievously beamed. “Hi!”

Realization was slow going, but his face shifted from unmistakable anger to that of a child getting a Giddy-up Buttcup for his birthday. “Holy shit.” he whispered.

“I know.”

“Holy Shit!”

“So, about that 35 caps you owe. I’ll accept a wide variety of compliments and sweet rolls in lieu-.”

“You’re not dead? Holy shit!” Winthrop was still in shock. He put his hands on my shoulders to get a good look at me, then pulled me close and hugged tightly. “Holy shit.”

The wet, broken pavement we trekked on was glossy like gunmetal. We followed Charon down a stretch of highway for several miles, then turned once we came to a set of dented mailboxes. While a cold mist settled into the evening hours the air began to hold a startling amount of electrically charged radiation. I turned off my Pipboys Geiger counter to silence the ticking.

Winthrop did most of the talking. He told me about how he, Roy, and the others fled Tenpenny and found the Fort. Tenpenny’s survivors stayed for only a few weeks, but he stayed behind for all of the opportunities he had to tinker. Winthrop was the reason for all the spot lights and automatic turrets. His current pet project was repairing a large off-road vehicle that’d been stored in a bunker, and he shared with me his drawings from the little book.

Laying on the ground a rusted, metal sign that read “Bee-knees Nursery and Sows” directed us to follow an overgrown driveway. At the end of the field a solidly-rebuilt barn, collapsed house, and two leaning silos appeared mostly undisturbed. Charon stopped to address his team. Despite his disposition the bodyguard held his square jaw level with an air of entitlement. Every action was fluid and precise with unmatched discipline. He stood with his shoulders set back and walked like he owned the wasteland.

“Listen up. This is a wellness check. No one’s responding to the radio. Ike assumes it’s broken and asked for Winthrop’s expertise. Diamond assumes our watch is dead. You -” The ghouls gaze shifted to me as he sunk his thumb into his belt loop and tensed his shoulders, “-aren’t coming . In fact. It’ll be like you were never here.”

“Then why am I —”

“Because something smells off,” he stressed, squinting his eyes and scrunching his hollow nose. Winthrop looked between us with a raised brow of uncertainty, but said nothing.

I get it. Real cute, big guy.

_I can play word games too._

“Yes, sir. I’ll stay right here,” I promised while lowering my glasses and peering over the Nuka-Cola cap lenses. A crack of neon green lightening split the sky and for a moment every minor detail of the dull-gray environment became illuminated. He shot me a dirty look, but if there was any hesitation or disbelief he didn’t push for it. The four ghouls abandoned me for the barn.

Curiosity got the better of me. “Hey! Why do you call him the Bishop?”

The predator cockily turned and walked backward with his rifle over his shoulder. “You better say your prayers, ‘cause he’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”

It was hard to not snort. That was the corniest thing I’d ever heard.

Never one who did well with idling, I walked circles around myself and watched the storm develop. My Pip-Boy buzzed suggestions like “Use Rad-X to buffer the effects” and “Rad-Away to take the gag away.” I’d only made a few paces around my self-imposed track when the boisterous sounds of a firefight interrupted my thought process. Rushing back down the drive was Winthrop and another ghoul. I rushed to cut them off.

“What’s happening?”

“Tom’s - dead. - Super - mutants!” the ghoul who I hadn’t spoken to yet announced in-between labored breaths. He was slim, but didn’t seem like a runner. Winthrop was equally exhausted from the short sprint.

I made an inappropriate, jerking off gesture with my hand. “So? Why’re you here? You came to secure the perimeter. Where’s the big one?”

“He’ll be fine. He’s the Bishop. Prayers, remember?”

“He can still die!” I snapped. “Winthrop?”

“I can’t shoot a rad roach if it was two feet in front of me. I’m the fix-it-guy,” the mechanic muttered and bowed his head. “Sorry, Shae.”

The other ghoul spoke. “Orders is orders. Bishop told us to head back, so that’s what we’re doing.”

“How many were there?” I asked, licking my lips and re-organizing my priorities to switch off the part of my brain that feared pain and dying.

“Five? Six? You’re not... you can’t be serious,” Winthrop fussed.

The ferocious bite of Charon’s shotgun echoed inside the barn alongside the rata-tat-tat of a pipe rifle. I raced to join the fray.

Looking for a way into the barn wasn’t easy. The front double-doors were locked and there were no broken windows. There was a brief gap of silence as the two parties reloaded, then more gunfire. A ferocious gust of cold air swept the valley and fluttered my skirt. I followed the many muddy tracks of ghoul boots, super mutant feet, and intimidating paws. The “predator” named Tom was sprawled-out face down with his gun undisturbed. Plunged into the mud beside him was a menacing combat knife with leather wrapped around its handle. Stealing the knife I stepped around his corpse and glided through the doorway. Below me a super mutant celebrated its big brain smarts by singing, “Found you!”

I glided out onto a wooden landing inside the barn and looked for an advantage. To my left a solo staircase led down to an open floor where rows of metal shelves were tightly packed together shoulder to shoulder. Stacked on the shelves were hundreds of glass jars of varying sizes and amounts. Smaller jars sat on top of each other, while larger jars had clearer brine and big chunks of meat preserved in them. The colors inside were vibrant despite the dust that piled over the canned goods. My belly told my mouth to salivate.

Charon hid on the other side of the barn with his back pressed to a gutted, dead tractor. He worked feverishly to feed red shells into his pump-action shotgun while a super mutant lifted the butt of his pipe rifle to deliver a deadly blow. I took two steps back, tightened my grip on the knife, then ran forward to leap onto the balcony’s rail. The rubber sole of my mountain climbing shoe barely touched the rail as I soundlessly bounced off of it and sailed down to land onto the super mutants back. The knife I held sunk deep into the green monster’s shoulder as the rest of my body slammed against him. Securing my free hand around his rope harness and setting my feet onto his belt, I pulled myself up, pulled the knife out, and stabbed again. The mutant howled and tried to knock me off by blindly swinging his gun into his own back. I sunk the blade into the muscles near his spine and used it as a means to pivot and avoid his throws. Dodging another attack from him, I dipped my head low and felt my feet begin to slip as slick blood flowed down between us. The mutant wailed with frustration. He tried to buck forward, but his feet were lethargic and confused. He dropped his gun while I pulled myself back up to continue my assault. Dark, red blood spilled from the depth of his wounds and dropped in batches onto the dirt floor. The knife thudded with every strike, and together he and I went down. The mutants body collapsed onto the floor as blood gushed and soaked all around him. I landed on my feet and felt the energy of the fall shake my ankles and knees. Old dirt, disturbed by the large disruption on the floor, circled around my head in the stale air. My heart pounded wildly. There was no time to catch my breath. There was more to kill.

A green forearm from between two shelf rows smacked my ribs and knocked the wind out of me. Stumbling forward I reached into my pocket for my pistol and tried to force my lungs to work before they were ready to. My voice croaked. A second, much stronger blow from the wooden handle of a sledge hammer sent me to the floor. Rocky pebbles scrapped the flesh on my palm and jammed the fingers that held my gun. I rolled onto my backpack and kicked my foot out, bracing the heel of my shoe against the super mutants thigh as if that was enough to stop him. The skirt of my dress glided down my leg and pooled around my waist, showing off my muscled calves and scarred knees. Now wasn’t the time to worry about modesty or being bashful. I inhaled and tried to call for help, but my lungs were empty paper bags. I fired Jone’s pistol and skimmed the mutants ear.

“Ha ha! Puny human!” He cheered delightfully as he raised his weapon over his head. The head of the sledge hammer was aligned for a perfect arc down to crush my skull.

Another attempt to get my lungs to cooperate. I screeched. “Charon!”

The large ghoul stepped behind the super mutant, reached underneath him to steal my foot from his thigh, and pulled. He slid me between the mutants legs as the metal head of the sledge hammer slammed into the ground and sent debris flying. A hole was punched into the ground where my head had been. The monster turned its body and pitched the sledge for an underarm swing. In one fluid motion Charon’s foot struck the sledge’s handle and kicked the hammer back, then fired his shotgun twice into the side of the mutants windpipe. As the super mutant fell he comically flashed what was concealed under his lion cloth. I winced. The ghoul grabbed my wrist and pulled me up beside him.

Charon observed my dress, his knife and Jone’s pistol in my bloody hands, and squinted his eyes accusingly. “What are you— ”

A mutant dog slammed into him and interrupted his interogation. The ghouls reflexes were exceptional. Despite the large paw holding his chest to the ground, he held both ends of his gun like a pry-bar to hold open the canines muzzle and control the direction it snapped in. The bizarre dog’s muscles contracted as it pushed its claws into the earth and held its large jowls around the guns barrel. Charon grimaced and barred his teeth.

I slashed at the dog’s green back and stomach just like I had the super mutant. “Mother. Fucker!” I cursed between grunts.

The dog blew large globs of saliva from its mouth as it spat out Charon’s gun and turned to defend itself. With its attention redirected to me it bit the air, narrowly missing my hands and thighs. I slid backwards and feigned intimidation by locking my eyes with the beast - one hand held the pistol while the other that held the knife tucked behind me to feel for the nearest shelf. I was ready to bolt and climb. The ghoul scrambled to his feet, set the nose of his gun to the back of the dogs skull, and fired. Bits of brain, blood, and bone sprayed like awful confetti as the dog crumpled.

Flipping the knife in my hand, I held the business end of the blade and offered the handle to Charon. The sawed edge felt like a large puzzle piece trying to slot itself with my fingers. He took possession of his knife and re-sheathed it to his thigh. Doubling my hold on the pistol in front of me, hand over hand, I exaggerated my hips and stretched strained muscles. The ghoul’s eyes tracked me.

Loud, pounding footsteps struck the doorway above like a bomb going off. They ran to the balcony and then the stairs. Automatic bullets scattered overhead and shattered some of the canned goods. Metal rings, lids, glass shards, and food splashed and landed around us. The floral smells of sweet syrup, acidic brine, and tangy blood enveloped my senses like an odd cocktail. I silently ran down one lane of shelves with my head ducked and finger on the trigger. Charon’s foot falls were audible as he doubled-around.

Our gunfire sang in unison like we planned it. I squeezed my trigger to escort a mostly-nude super mutant down the stairs. With four holes in its chest, the green giant dramatically rolled toward me and slowed his descent by hitting the wall. Charon’s shotgun peppered three shots to the second floor and sunk enough pellets into the mutant in the doorway that its face transformed into mush. The mutants legs, somehow still functional, dragged forward until he hit the banister and slouched over the same rail I’d leapt from.

We strained our ears against our ragged breathing and pounding hearts.

“That it?” I whispered.

The ghoul grunted.

“You hurt?”

“No,” he gulped between breaths. “You?”

I disregarded my ribs. “No.”

Waiting for our breathing to return to normal we leered at one another in between the shelves and canned goods. Charon recovered first.

“I didn't need _your_ help,” he seethed. Now the gloves were off. The ghoul returned his shotgun to his back and approached a rusty well spigot. The pipes groaned when he drew the well’s handle. From the metal tap water sputtered unreliable sprays like an awful sneeze, dousing the earth around the bucket. He cursed under his breath.

Tucking the pistol away I tiptoed around two sets of dead legs to give him the help he “didn’t need”. I lifted the bucket, pressed it to my stomach and cradled it under the spigot. “Are you being a prick for my benefit or is this just your default setting now?”

He stiffened a little at that, but rhythmically pulled the well’s handle. In four long pumps the bucket was full.

“You were supposed to leave,” he said. Charon closed his hand around the buckets handle and relieved me of its uncomfortable weight.

“Is that why you returned my glasses and then sent a messenger to bring me to you? Real solid strategy. Reunite me with an old friend, leave my dog behind, and then tell me to scram. Did you pull that out of your ass last minute or did it take all night to plan?” Sarcasm oozed out of my mouth like a viper with too much venom. “You think I like putting myself on the super mutant menu? I could have joined the boys to Camp Delusional and dropped your ass. But no. I’m here. You don't have to thank me. But don't turn this around like I'm the idiot who decided to square off with a gang of super mutants _on my own_ so that they could tear out my bones and play house rules Blast Radius.”

Charon carried the full bucket as seriously as anyone could and planted it on a cracked butchers block. He cupped his hands into the water, brought his palms to his face and splashed. Blood-tinged water cascaded down his face and neck. Dragging his wet palm across his mouth a single droplet clung to the tip of his vacant nose and plummeted to trace the outline of his thin lips. I swallowed.

“I can’t protect you. Whatever you think this is,” he said while gesturing between him and me. “It’s not it. The Fort isn’t safe.”

I flapped my hand as if swatting away a mosquito. So many heartfelt and bitter things came to mind, but instead my walls tried to go up. I pushed them back down again. I knew the risks.

He snickered, despite himself, and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here. They’re going to ask questions.”

“They’re going to thank me for protecting an asset.”

“It doesn’t work like that. If they think you’re a threat they won’t hesitate to ask me... You’re the only one who ever came close to killing me.”

Did he say that because I had once held his contract, because he thought I was formidable, or because he knew I wasn't right in the head and actually did kill him? Maybe a combination of the three. I didn’t ask him to clarify. It wasn’t a compliment.

“I think I did.” I scowled.

“You did.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you tried to kill me back.”

The ghoul looked down his nose and uneasily rubbed his wet forehead. “Let’s not dig up old shit.”

I closed and reopened my blood-tacky fists. I didn’t deserve forgiveness. My gut hurt with ambivalence. “So... what is it?” I asked while chewing the inside of my cheek. I couldn’t believe we were having our conversation among corpses and an unsecured perimeter. Suddenly, scared of what I might do, I stepped back so that there was a larger gap between us. I was done playing games.

Charon shook his head as if that was enough to block my noise.

“I... looked for you.” _I missed you._

The ghoul looked back at me and mindlessly traced his tongue over his canines. Unwilling to entertain me any longer he smacked his lips and tapped the bucket with his knuckles. “Clean up. We have to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact. For centuries maggots have been used to clean wounds that don’t heal well. They eat the dead tissue and leave the good stuff. But... I bet you already knew that. NERDS.
> 
> Welcome back, Winthrop! No LW is complete without a sidekick.
> 
> Dawh. They’re so cute when they fight. Like an old married couple. My notes for this chapter included “stabbity-stab-stab”. Lots of stabbing. Up next! That car scene I promised in the comments however many chapters ago. Mwahaha.


	24. Over-reactions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly warning. This chapter is smut...
> 
> Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** Fallout belongs to Bethesda.

* * *

Freezing rain pelted against us and seeped through my jacket and clothes, chilling my core in a way that normal cold just couldn’t compete with. The sky, having lost most of its sunlight, was sickly green from the poisoned clouds that built their militia somewhere north of the Capitol. Another unnatural spark of neon lightening traced the sky.

Disoriented and downtrodden by the weather I looked to the ghoul who walked beside me. He mostly ignored me - so focused on the trek back to the Fort I may as well have not been there at all. The miserable weather ebbed into my bones, but it was his cold front that chilled me.

_I can’t do this._

Without saying goodbye I broke from the road and approached an old farm truck that had a petrified, wood trunk bed. The weather wore the vehicles body down to a bare aluminum with a salty sheen and matte orange finish. Miscellaneous specks of paint still held to the metal body in between the seams and hinted to another life where it may have been candy-apple red. Mostly gutted of its most necessary functions, it had a roof, a few cracked windows, and four closed doors that promised suitable shelter. Charon stayed firmly planted to the broken asphalt.

I considered saying goodbye, but gave a curt salute instead. There was no point in straining my voice to a man who essentially said we were nothing - and that’s a harsh spoonful of truth I needed time to swallow. My cheeks and nose were red from the cold and I sniffled. The ghoul scrunched his own nose and lifted his flat, upper lip to form a sort of sneer. He lost his gaze to the distance, then resumed walking like a man who was lost, but too prideful to ask for directions. I watched him until he disappeared behind a blanket of heavy rain and fog.

Three out of four of the truck’s doors denied me entry. I planted one foot onto the truck’s frame, two hands onto the back seat handle, and gave it a solid “this is bullshit” tug with all of my weight. The door swung open with enough force it almost tipped me over. Whirling my arm in front of me to grab the inner ceiling-handle I heaved myself several feet up and fell into the wide backseat. I brought my feet in and quietly pulled the door until it clicked. The rain’s acoustics on the metal roof reverberated inside the cab and gave me a calming sense of peace. Wet fabric from the dress skirt stuck to my thighs and made wearing it unbearable. To make matters worse my Pip-Boy wasn’t too happy with the amount of rads I’d taken from the storm. I pouted for my predicament and tugged a cold jar of mutifruit preserves from my jacket pocket.

The truck’s cab was narrow with a long, single backseat suited for napping so long as I folded into myself. Abandoning my backpack in the drivers front seat I peeled off my wet coat and shoes, and dropped them and my pistol into the footwell to be dealt with later. I man-handled the jar until it opened. The satisfying pop of the seal breaking and the sweet, almost nutty, aroma of the syrup brought back memories of the first time I discovered a food cache. I’d only been outside of the vault for a few weeks when I first experienced hunger. True hunger. Too many missed meals and no idea how to live off the land. An abandoned footlocker in an old Police Station had several days worth of preserved, amber unknowns. I had gorged myself on the fruit mush until I puked.

Tossing the lid I brought the glass jar to my lips and sipped off the top. It was better than I remembered. Honey-mint? Fruity-onion with cool undertones? Bright pinky-orange slices suspended in sugary syrup and irresistible. In one quick motion I drank a third of the syrup. Sticky liquid dribbled down my chin as I closed my lips and swallowed.

Knuckles tapped on glass.

My shoulders jumped and I hunched over the jar to stop myself from spilling it. I looked to the source of the noise, certain that whoever it was that knocked wouldn’t have done so if they wanted me dead. Dark, leather armor and shoulders were framed by the truck’s window.

Charon?

I quirked my head and silently communicated a snarky reply. The ghoul opened one of the doors I had written off as jammed.

“Lose something?” I asked.

He rested his forearm to the roof of the car and peeked inside. It may have been gloomy, but I could still discern where he was by his pale blue stare. His eyes fell to my shoes and gun, pack, and evening snack. Heavy rain rebounded off of his form and wet the back seat. Cold mist settled inside of the truck.

“It’s not safe here,” he said.

I shivered. “Because of all those dead super mutants? Oh dear. Whatever will a sweet little thing like me do?” I teased and scooted sideways to free the damp seat beside me. I crossed my bare ankles over themselves and folded them to my side. The wet fabric of the skirt pulled tightly around my legs.

The ghoul frowned and pushed his brows together. “Did you really look for me?”

“I’ve slept beside ferals for you.”

A few of the metal beads that held his dog tags peaked out from under his shirt and winked at me. My eyes followed the chain along his collar bone, skipped up to his neck, followed his sharp jaw line, and then fixed on the fat drop of water that held tight to red and gray stubble. As he turned his attention to something above the truck roof the water droplet lost its grip and careened down his neck to tuck itself to bed under his shirt.

“Mutifruit?” I offered playfully as I waggled the open jar in front of him.

“Those are for winter - you said you hated mutifruit." Charon frowned while smoothly sliding into the truck and resting his shotgun in his lap. Having not made his mind up officially, he left one foot outside of the car as if the action grounded his thoughts. The top of his head almost touched the ceiling.

“You remembered? I don’t hate it in the same way you might hate bad breath or insomnia. I hate mutifruit because once I start I can’t stop.”

Diving a crooked finger into the jar I pulled out the first slice, dropped and held it between my teeth, then sucked my finger tips. Partially from necessity, partially because I’m a sex starved jackass with nothing better to do. If he was going to make the silly decision of sitting beside me, then he’d just have to suffer the consequences. The fruit was spongy and fell apart like jelly.

The ghoul exhaled through his absent nose, leaned back, pulled his foot into the truck, and slammed the door. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said restlessly.

“Look at you like what?”

“For fucks sake. Do I have to spell it out? Humans don’t come to the Fort, so ghouls don’t have a lot of practice huffing hormones and ignoring whatever stupid instincts your kind tend to trigger. Whatever over-reaction you cause because of your carelessness is going to be your own damn fault.”

Charon wasn’t talking about simply avoiding becoming the next main course at a neighborly picnic. There was more to this. My time spent living with ferals taught me that their brains had rot down to their most basic needs: eating, sleeping, and mating. The pieces were fitting together. Ghouls who were out of human contact for too long were basically ferals who hadn’t lost themselves yet. The corner of my lip lifted.

To keep my half-finished desert upright I leaned forward and fed the round jar to one of my shoes in the footwell. As I rolled back into place I rotated and tucked my legs underneath me and faced him.

“So, what you’re saying is... Someone may try to take advantage of me.”

Charon scrunched his face and adverted his gaze to look out the window. “Yes.”

Air filled my lungs and came back out as a breathy sigh. Red filled my cheeks and hinted to all of the wonderfully-devious things that were already altering my good judgement. I drifted towards him and transferred some of my weight by placing my left hand onto his knee. My back end jut behind me as the front of the dress dipped and teased out just the tops of my bare breasts. With hooded eyes I brought myself close enough to him so that I could feel the warmth his body generated. “Are you out of practice, Charon?”

Startled by my candor the ghoul’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start something you’ve no intention of finishing, smoothie.”

I leaned into him to hover my lips over his, and waited for him to profess he’d changed and wasn’t the playboy he’d used to be. “I’m not,” I whispered coyly. I slowly inhaled and relished the smell of him.

He grit his teeth. “It’s been a while. We’re done when I say we’re done.”

“Good.”

He tucked his shotgun behind the backseat headrests, then crushed his mouth to mine while pushing his large hand on my shoulder. Charon moved with the type of desperation and haste that braced itself for retaliation. His tongue flicked into my mouth and his sharp teeth grazed over my lips. I placed one hand on his neck to keep myself from tipping over and caressed the back of his skull with my other. My heart hummed, thrummed, and sent a rush of blood between my legs. I shifted to kneel, then tilted my head down and to the side to get more of him. Our lips were slick with rain and saliva from how hastily we kissed one another. The ghoul drew his hand down my shoulder and dragged with it the strap of my dress. In one smooth motion his hand circled back around and cupped my bare breast. His whole hand took the mound as my nipple, already peaked from the cold, sat in the center of his palm. I pleasantly hummed, then grabbed both sides of his face to draw out and deepen the kiss. His shoulders lowered while he massaged the mound of fat and licked my bottom lip.

“Got a taste for human now?” I whispered. He shh’d me.

Raking his fingers against my skull, he twisted his fingers in my hair and then tugged gently until my neck careened to the side. His tongue drew promises over my neck. I slipped my hand into the collar of his armor to fix my balance. Carefully I slipped one leg over his and straddled the edge of his thigh so that he could feel the plumpness of my ass. Gliding my hands down his broad chest I feverishly unbuckled the straps of his armor. Charon snickered, straightened, and scooped his left arm around and under me. The uneven skin of his palm grazed my inner thigh while he lifted me and plopped me down directly into his lap. I squeaked when his hands grabbed both cheeks, squeezed, and then possessively dragged my cunt against the hard bulge in his pants. He was thick, and I was intimidated.

_What’ve I gotten myself into?_

The skirt of the dress bunched between us and under me, making it feel like a barrier I could live without. He sunk into the backseat and watched for changes to my expression as he reached with agile fingers and pulled the dress zipper down my spine until the shoulders straps floated over my forearms. Charon tugged the dress away and encouraged my arms to slip out, then pushed the front of my dress down until it stretched around my wide hips and left my upper half naked. The ghoul’s intense gaze told my insides to flop as I became uncomfortably aware of how much my body wanted him. My panties, slick with arousal, stuck to me when I lifted my hips.

Cold air raced to fill the new divide between the slack dress fabric and my stomach, and drew goose bumps from my skin. I shivered, then pressed my lips back to his to replace some of the lost warmth. One of his hands curled around and kneaded my thigh while the other slowly traced my spine. His fingers followed down the crevasse between my asscheeks and under me. He held my sex through the scant, wet, cotton fabric and rubbed gentle, barely-there strokes. I groaned into his mouth as my inner walls twitched.

Returning to his armor I successfully untethered one of the buckles, curled my fingers under the leather, and pulled up. Charon tilted himself to help me pull the entire piece up over his head, then tossed it behind me to get lost somewhere in the front seats. As he crossed his arms in front of himself and removed his sticky, wet tshirt large drops of water fell from the peeks of his elbows, broken skin, and sharp folds of the fabric. The shirt was irrelevant. I shoved my bare chest against his and lust-drunkenly licked his lips.

As we kissed he reached underneath me and released his belt, then popped pants button after button. He stole the hand that was on his chest and guided it into his open pants so that I could feel his solid cock. I circled my hand around his stiff base and then slowly drew it up the whole of him. My thumb brushed over the top and dredged pre-cum from his skin. His breath, shaky, hinted to a moan he selfishly kept all for himself.

The texture of the ghouls skin and lack of hair made the whole experience feel even more erotic. My teeth chattered from the cold and my breath formed a fine mist as I exhaled.

Charon circled an arm around my back and hugged me tightly to him. I eagerly seized his warmth by tucking my arms behind him and holding his shoulder blades. He made me feel so small and powerless. His fingers, having returned to teasing my folds, twisted the seat of my panties and tucked them out of the way. The ghoul traced his index finger along my silky entrance, then plunged it inside. I mewled as his finger moved, then he added a second and scissored them to help prepare me. He rubbed and teased, but as I tilted my hips into his hand he withdrew his fingers and devoted his thumb to keep my panties to the side. My sex was exposed and he couldn’t have been more clear. I positioned my hips over his cock and eased myself down.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered as his dick stretched me. My insides stung and I had to pull up a little, pause, then push back down. I rocked my hips until he was slick with my cum and as deep as my body would allow. I plateaued before he bottomed out. Hissing, my body stiffened and my breaths evolved from eager-and-willing to shaky-and-uncomfortable. Slowly rolling my hips I reminded myself to relax and adjust. I nuzzled my face into his neck and breathed in the warmth and salt from his skin. The ghoul showed that he had some self-restraint by keeping himself perfectly still. It was almost as if he knew this would happen. Jerk.

Charon placed a faint kiss on my forehead and rubbed my lower spine to warm me. Humming, I wiggled my hips in time with his back strokes. As his hand came up I arched my back and lifted off of him, and as his hand stroked back down I plunged myself deeper than before. A sharp twinge went through me as he hit my cervix, so I changed my position and tried again until I could take all of him without whimpering. Pleasure overrode the pain as my clit touched his pelvis and then dragged against his rough skin. I rocked my hips eagerly and slid my hands to his shoulders as my body warmed from the elevated activity. Now confident riding him, pressure built between my legs while my pace increased. Pressure was building. His body was hot enough for the two of us and he lifted his hips to meet me. Both of Charons hands took my hips so that he could show me how he wanted to be fucked. He pushed down while bucking up, forcing my cunt to slam into him. I bit my lip and gasped, then moaned. He pounded into me quick, loud, and hard, and I pressed one hand to the ceiling to stay steady. The windows had become foggy with the steam generated by Charon’s body heat. My bunched up dress swished between us as he moved.

The ghoul slapped my ass hard with a deafening crack, and then pinched his fist around the fat flesh. Where the first impact shocked me, the second slap stung even more and had me groaning for another. Rain water and sweat between us allowed our body’s to move against one another slickly and unhindered. He was absolutely shameless with his lust and I looked forward to the bragging rights. My stomach muscles tightened as our movements brought me closer to my release. Bringing my hand to his neck, I pressed my fingers under his jawline to gently squeeze and feel his pulse. His thrusts became erratic as I felt his cock pulse against my walls and him spill over. He stopped moving and kept his eyes shut. I was losing my grip on my own orgasm and tried to force it by taking advantage of the extra lubrication before he went limp.

“Stop”, he said.

I kept moving.

Charon growled. “Stop.” He brought his hands down with my hips and stilled me. Disappointed, I sighed, swatted his hands away, and picked myself up off of him. My insides ached with desire and no release. Everything he spilled inside of me dribbled to my swollen entrance and wet my thighs through my underwear. I plunked myself down on the vacant half of the back seat and starred daggers at the head rest in front of me.

“You know...” I dared breathlessly. “When you said you got to decide when we were done, I expected something more... exhausting.”

The ghoul growled again and removed himself from his seated position to sink both of his knees into the footwell. He took hold of my knees and pulled me towards him. I was dragged against the seat until my pelvis hovered over the edge. His hands stroked up my thighs so that he could take my panties and pull them off. He moved them down my legs and dropped the sopping mess beside my shoes.

“What’re you—”

Charon part my legs, pushed my skirt above my hips, and dipped his head. The stubble on his chin felt sharp against my inner thigh as he flattened his tongue against my sex and licked from bottom to top. A jolt of pleasure ran through me and I curled forward. What was _that_? He licked again between my folds and dove his tongue into me, then closed his lips over my clit and sloppily sucked. My face screwed up tight with pleasure as I tried to keep my eyes open and watch him. With both of my knees draped over his broad shoulders and him buried between my thighs I wondered if oral always felt this good. The ghouls back was long and defined with hills of muscle and scars. I gasped when he lapped his own cum from my thighs, then plunged two fingers into my wet hole, pressed them to the top of my wall, and curled them forward. My insides twitched. His mouth was back on my clit and sucking while his fingers continued to move. The pleasure was too intense. Too much.

“Char- ah. Wait.”

Hooking his fingers inside of me again he moved his mouth in such a way that I couldn’t handle it. “Wa-it,” I choked as my muscles tensed. I tried to pull my hips back, but he had me pinned. I pushed my hand against his head, so he retaliated by tightly taking a hold of my wrist and pulling it toward him. I was stuck. “Ah - I can’t.”

Charon withdrew his two fingers from my cunt and put them in my mouth to shut me up. The saltiness and the knowledge that it was both of our cum on my own tongue made my mouth water. I greedily sucked his finger tips. He nipped and licked. My hips bucked involuntarily as the pressure finally snapped.

Lightening flashed streaks of bright green and a moment later thunder boomed outside. My breath hitched and my jaw fixed itself open to form an “o”. The orgasm clamped my thighs and trapped him in-between. Everything was involuntary. From my head jerking back against the glass window behind me, my hips thrusting into his mouth, my spine arching and bouncing my breasts, to the obscenely loud moans on repeat, to the electricity that released from my pelvis and followed all the right circuits to animate me. Shallow pits were scratched into his shoulder while my freehand tried to keep a hold of him. My insides convulsed and twitched as he stopped applying suction over my clit. Gradually the waves of my orgasm weakened from the initial chemical reaction and my body felt weak. I melted deep into the backseat and let myself go lax. The ghoul swallowed and licked until the evidence of our pleasure between my legs was gone. He gave one last, satisfactory lap between my lips.

“Damn,” I whispered as my left leg fell into the truck’s footwell.

The ghoul wiped our fluids from his mouth with his wrist and smirked fondly. Shifting beside me he retreated to his side of the cab, pulled his pants back over his firm ass, and tucked in his semi-hard erection.

I stretched and dropped both of my small feet into his lap. “Damn.” I repeated. “That was... Fuck me up, big guy. If I knew you were capable of that I’d have had you on Azrhukal’s counter.”

Charon’s laugh was lecherous as he slid his hand up my leg and pinched my thigh between his palm and fingers. His laughter was the first sound he’d made since we started.

“You don’t moan?” I asked.

“I prefer hearing.”

“Can we do this again?”

The ghoul’s head turned so quickly he may have given himself whiplash. His eyes went wide, then looked away. “That’s not advisable,” he said distantly.

I tried to say nothing.

I tried to ignore the warmth on my skin that wasn’t my own. Ignore the fog on the windows. The thick smell of sex. Tell myself the sound of heavy rain assaulting the tin-metal roof around us was enough noise until it wasn’t. I rolled my lips and spoke quickly. “Why didn’t you come back? I needed you.”

He buttoned his pants and cinched his belt around his defined hips. “Your orders were to escort the slaves to safety. Underworld wasn’t safe. It wasn’t my choice.”

“Just like you had no choice to give away your contract? Did you even try?”

“It’s not me who decides,” he said flatly.

“Bullshit. I wasted my time looking for you for nothing. Because you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere.”

He crashed his jaw closed and titled his head back to look at the peeling, fabric ceiling - drawing into himself to test the damage. Anger and disgust oozed out of every intact ghoul pore and clogged my senses with his distaste. Why did have I open my stupid mouth? Perhaps I shouldn’t have cut him with his contract. Or perhaps I should have asked how he felt about cramped spaces with an ovulating human keen on testing his ghoul senses. Now that he knew what I did to him in the purifier it was only a matter of time for us to satisfy the lust question, just to know what it was like, before he could go on to hating me. I caressed his cheek and tried to comfort him without making things worse.

“You’re a spoiled, sheltered, insensitive brat,” the ghoul finally fumed, flinching away from me to tuck his belt’s tail back into his pant loops. I admired the rolling muscles of his abdominals as he looked for his t-shirt in the foot well.

“And you’re a blind, prudish, old prick,” I said, suddenly feeling vulnerable for my nudity. “But I still want you.”

Charon grunted with disinterest. He avoided me while he put on his shirt, tucked in his dog tags, secured his armor, checked his boot laces, and grabbed his shotgun. “This was stupid.”

What’s he saying? _Doing?_

I froze still and my heart dropped like it was free-falling into a bottomless pit. My body was stuck still in horror as the ghoul opened the truck door, slipped out with his boots splashing on the soggy soil, and slammed the door shut. He stood in the rain unmoving.

_Stop him._

I leaned into the warm spot he just vacated and cracked the door open. “Are you okay?”

There were a million spicy, funny, disgusted, angry, things he could have said to me. But he said nothing, and the silence was more cutting than anything verbal he could have possibly delivered. The look he gave me was angry, conflicted, and pained.

I closed the door and starred at my red, bare knees. I felt exposed and slipped my arms through the dresses straps to cover my breasts. Where did my coat go?

The large ghoul swayed a little in his spot, then started walking back towards the paved road. He was bailing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. The car scene. There was so much I wanted to add, but we’ll just save it all for later. Ahem. Charon may have a choking kink.


End file.
